The Goddess

Chapter One

The wide, stretching lips of the monkey snapped back, exposing blood red gums, the long sharp incisors dripping with angry saliva. His loud shriek permeating the silence, as he jumped on the crouching bent spine before him and the man holding her ankles, with a terrifying twist, loosed his grip and ran from the tent. This was not the first time she had been saved by her friend. He came with his family, jumping and swinging from the branches of the thick trees every evening and she would share with them her scraps of food and her stories of the day. The leader of the tribe was the largest monkey and her friend, and was now sat outside as she emerged from the makeshift tent and joined him. He didn’t seem to mind her guttural noises, in fact he understood them. She glanced over at the tattered blue tarpaulin roof and made a mental note to find more tin cans and place them around the tent, so she would hear any approach more clearly. The attacks were becoming more frequent by the men who worked at the brick making area and instinctively, she knew that one day the monkey would not be able to save her.

She had been ten years old when she first arrived from Jaipur and had lived in the slums with her sick mother and drunken father. Born with a tongue that would not work, she had never been able to speak words, all she could do was grunt and bring a nasal and guttural noise from her throat. This had made her an outcast, even within her already outcast society of poverty. In her loneliness, she listened. She listened to her mother when her bouts of coughing had left her, who sang in a high melancholy voice, and in her own head, she repeated the song, moving her head side to side with its lilts and drops. People thought she was mad, an imbecile and so, she remained inside the dark one-roomed shack, swaying her head, watching her drunken father beat her coughing mother, and listened. She listened to her dying mothers rattle just before she closed her eyes for the last time. She listened to the rats, scurrying around her father as he snored every night on the floor, and she listened to the man in the suit, who came to take her away, to work at his brick making place, to pay off the debts her father owed him. And so, she had arrived here, to bring buckets of earth from the soil pile and buckets of water from the stream, all day, every day, in the hot baking sun and to collapse and rest in the shade of her blue tarpaulin tent, held up by branches and perched on the edge of the brick piles.

At first, her food was brought, what little it was, by a worker every evening, some fruit and nuts and perhaps some bread, if the worker hadn’t eaten it and there she stayed making friends with the monkeys and entertaining herself by hand digging through the mountain of refuse from the workers and swaying her head to her mothers’ songs. Six years had passed since she had arrived and although now tall and slender, she crouched as she walked in a deliberate portrayal of servitude. Wrapped in a dirty grey old and torn sheet that she had salvaged from the rubbish pile, and wearing odd sandals, she could be almost invisible to most and rejected by those who did notice her. But inside her hovel, in the evening, she allowed herself the fantasy of The Picture.

The face in the picture stared at her from its faded blue background, a shining circle of light surrounding the woman’s head. The Goddess had dark brown eyes lined with black kohl flicked out at the edges, dark eyebrows shaped in a pleasant arch, and a bright red spot shone out from between them. Her nose was straight and regal, sloping gently to the full red lips. A golden and silver necklace encircled the slender throat and a jewel encrusted tiara sat on the parted black hair, with a gold and red droplet sitting on the hairline. Covering The Goddess was a bright red and gold edged sari, which lay softly over her head and gently folded in to her neckline. This was her delight. She took a box from under the piles of rags that she used to sleep on and from within it she drew her treasure. A small thin stick of charcoal, a small tin of loose red powder, an old celebration strand of gold garland, and a piece of red cloth. Propping the picture up, she began to sing in her head and firstly letting down her waist long black hair, she drew a charcoal line on her eyes, reddened her lips with the powder, placed the red spot in between her brows and tied the gold garland around her neck. Placing the red material around her head, she smiled at the enjoyment of her imitation. Suddenly, she heard the sound of rattling from some of the tin cans outside. A scattering of stones hit the blue tarpaulin and she knew it was the boy. He had been before, throwing stones and causing her annoyance in his casual curiosity. Another shower of stones hit, this time bigger ones. She lifted the flap and stuck her head out and began to grunt as hard as she could. The boy had been braver than usual, almost a few feet away from her. She waved her arms and grunted louder and forgetting to crouch, she ran out at him.

The boy had seen the mad girl before when he had thrown stones and she had come out slowly, crouching and moving toward him, and laughing he had skipped away, but this time, she looked strange, her long black hair was loose and she looked taller and a strange and different quality about her. It was one thing to throw stones at an imbecile but another to do it to a real person. In fright, he turned quickly and his right foot caught in between the bricks and it twisted as he tried to run. In pain he shouted out and unable to move his foot, he collapsed. In shock she moved toward him, afraid of this boy with his neat trousers and shirt and his clean face and hair. She could see he was crying and he was in pain and although she was afraid, her reasoning told her this was only a young boy. She placed her hand on his arm and at first he pulled away, afraid of her, but she placed her hand again and he allowed it to stay. She then grunted and smiling with her eyes, she comforted him whilst she gently brought his foot out of the bricks. He howled in pain as she lifted him in her arms and although he was struggling, she carried him to the stream, where she laid him on the bank, his foot dangling in the running water. He stopped crying as the cool liquid stopped the pain, and smiling she sat reassuring him, stroking his arm and his hair until an hour of the sun has passed and lifting him again she took him back to her tent, where she used her sleeping rags to bind his ankle and she then carried him as he pointed the way to his home. She placed him down many times during the five mile walk and darkness fell before she saw the lights of a large wooden house, where she lay him down on the floor of the verandah and rang the hand bell outside the door. A large grey haired woman in a blue sari opened the door and seeing the boy, screamed out to the others in the house to come out. Neither the boy, nor the others noticed as she crouched away.

Later, she heard the sound of the car wheels as they crawled over the loose brick chippings on the one track road. She counted in her head, three car doors opening and slamming shut before the man’s voice broke the silence of the night.“Come out woman!”

Then the voices drifted up to her, two women, and the boy she had helped a few hours ago. Peeping through a hole in the blue tarpaulin, she could see the grey haired woman in the bright blue sari and a younger woman in a grey-blue sari, with gold glinting from her ears and neck, standing close to an open car door where the boy sat inside, his foot now bandaged with clean cloth.

The man was tall wearing a black suit with a white shirt, the collar open and from his neck hung a gold chain and a gold watch gleamed from his wrist . He was standing at the bottom of the brick pile, one knee bent as if he was going to climb. He shouted out another command,“Come out woman, now!”

Soraya lifted the flap and crouched as she moved out of the tent, her heart pounding with fear. She had only seen the owner of the brickworks once on the day he brought her to this place. During the long drive from Jaipur to the brickworks he spoke not once, nor did he offer her food or drink and when they had arrived, he had simply opened the door and called to a worker who had then dragged her out of the big black shiny car. How she had been afraid that day! And here again, now, her fear crept through her. If he told her to leave, where would she go? She knew nothing and no one, only her tent. Trembling, she stood upright, lowered her eyes and closed her hands in a respectful reverence to him.

The boy shouted, “Goddess, Goddess!!” and at his voice she looked up in his direction, meeting the eyes of his mother and grandmother. She heard their gasps and to her amazement, they all closed their hands in respect to her and slowly, moving backwards, they returned to the car.

When they had gone, she lay her exhausted body and mind on her sleeping rags and fell asleep. She awoke the next morning, to the sound of voices. Hurriedly rising, she peeped through the holes. The black shiny car was parked outside, the two women were placing matting plates filled with fruit and bread onto the bricks and the owner was throwing garlands of jasmine on top of them. Two of the male workers were placing bottles of water on the top of the bricks and as she crept out of the tent, one cried out and they all bent their heads, closing their hands together in prayer. The owner looked up and waved his hand gently over the gifts in an offering to her. They then returned to their car and drove away. The workers stayed, staring at her with wide puzzled eyes, until they too bowed their heads and left, slowly, backing away. She waited until they were out of sight and ran to the food and water, balancing them in her skirt rags until she was safely back in the tent. What did it mean? She questioned over and over and then came to the amazing conclusion that they were thanking her for helping the boy, that must be it, yes, that was it.

She noticed under the bread was a parcel and ripping the thin white paper open, she stopped still at the sight of the neatly folded, bright red and gold sari. She touched it, then, touched it again. Then lifted it and it fell in flowing folds of silken crimson, the gold thread at its edges glinting its wonder. Beneath the sari was a soft cloth box with eye kohl and red, smudge powder. It was quite a while before she gathered her thoughts and her feelings, from fear to euphoria and a strange tearfulness, were the feelings she experienced now, which she did not understand, for tears were something she had not owned for six years. Reluctant to forage in the heat of the day as was usual for her, clutching the parcel and a flat-bread, she walked to the stream to bathe, knowing at this time no one would be there. Leaving her gifts under the shade of the lush yellow and green bushes, she stepped into the cool water and slowly allowed herself to sit, until her lower form was covered in the rushing current and then, placing her head on a jutting stone, she lay fully immersed as the bubbling clear waters soaked her rags and entered her skin. On impulse, she pulled off the rags one by one allowing them to be carried away and she felt a strange exhilaration shoot through her as her purity welcomed the cold and sunlit murmuring of the water. After a while, she quickly returned to the bush and in a slow delight, pulled on the soft silk top blouse and wrapped the sari around her form. As the afternoon cooled, she walked back to the tent, her long hair still damp as it lay on her back. Her thoughts flickered in a colourful chaos and jumped to the monkey, when he came she had much to tell him, but as she neared the brick pile, she could see a small crowd of workers gathered below her tent. Silently she crawled up the rear side of the bricks and lifting the blue tarpaulin, she entered quickly, scared of what was happening. At that moment she heard the shrieks of the monkey and his family and she went out to greet him. He sat in his usual place outside the entrance, his family slightly behind. There was a loud gasp and murmurings as she emerged and the men were pointing at the monkey and herself, then inexplicably, each one closed their hands in reverence to her and placed a gift onto the bricks. Some were garlands, some were food, some were juices and each worker as he placed his gift, looked up into her face. She sat next to her monkey friend and inside her head, her mothers’ silent song began. Swaying her head to its tune filled memory, she felt inside a lifting feeling, in wonder of the days’ events.

Chapter Two

Ashra Marjashi felt a jolt of electricity charge through his body as he read the article in the Mombai news-sheet. As his body stiffened, he knocked the edge of the table next to his wheelchair and the cup of black tea fell to the floor. The article read,

“Monkey Goddess returns to Jaipur. Local businessman receives the honour.”

The words seemed to jump from the paper as he went on to read,

“A local businessman, Mister Pasha Vaydesh had received the honour of the visitation of the Monkey Goddess, and her healing gifts were drawing great crowds to the area. The Goddess is now located in a temple house, provided by Mr Vaydesh, near the village of Champash. The Goddess appears on the steps of the temple house every evening and large crowds gather there, to ask for her blessings and give offerings. Because of the healing powers of The Goddess, many medical students and doctors are spending their time of Karmic Service, in a clinic, built and given by Mr Vaydesh.”

A quote from a young dentist, newly qualified went on to say,

“When I heard of The Monkey Goddess and the healing blessings, I decided to give my services free to the poor, for six months of every year. My Karmic blessings will journey with me and my family”

Ashra stared at the article for a long time and was still staring at it when his wife entered the room. Picking up the cup and saucer, she gently placed her hand on his shoulder and bent down to peer in his face.

“What is wrong? Is something wrong?”

His eyes bore into hers, deep brown pools of concern, and he was aware that he had not noticed the lines around her eyes, the tension of her facial muscles. He could see the middle parting of her once thick and shining black hair was now white. Her brown and orange sari slipped from her shoulder, and with a sweep of her hand, she threw it back. “What is wrong?”

He began to smile, slowly, then widely, then loudly laughing, he said,

“There is nothing wrong my dear, but everything is right.”

Ashra had been in a road accident a year ago. The traffic in Mumbai was notoriously chaotic and he had been pushed by a taxi, into the side of a waiting van as he had tried to cross the road. Being a doctor, he had known from the x-rays, as he lay in hospital that his bones would not recover and had since, spent two years, undergoing several operations by his eminent colleagues, trying to give him some hope of walking again, but it had proved useless. He was a wealthy man but his wealth had now only provided his hated wheelchair and his comforts, the television, and the computer and a meaningless, endless, string of days, all inside his plush, city apartment.

The moment he read the article of The Monkey Goddess, he had felt a rush of warmth pervade his body and the sudden urge to go and see her. But more than a visit, he was still a doctor, he would go and offer his services free, he would take medicines and equipment, he was rich, he could afford anti- biotic, operating equipment, drugs and recovery beds. Yes, he thought elatedly, as he stared at the news sheet, yes, that is what I must do. To the shock of his concerned wife, as he looked into her sad and worried face, he laughed aloud, and his face had a light that she had not seen for years. He showed her the article and excitedly told her of his plans.

Chapter Three

Soraya Singh sat in the large and brightly painted chair, behind the wide and high wooden doors of The Temple, in the cool of the purpose built porch. When her two female attendants opened the doors, she would see the crowds of men, women and children, sitting below the three deep steps of the temple house and as the doors opened, a loud hail and gasps would rise from the crowd and then they would quieten as they watched her sway her head from side to side. There would be hundreds of candles, lighting up the scene as each pilgrim brought their prayer and incense filled the air from their acts of offerings. Jasmine garlands would be thrown on the steps, chanting and murmurings of thanks and blessings hummed in the evening atmosphere and she, she would listen to her mothers’ song. After fifteen minutes, her attendants in their long red saris would close the doors and she would return with them to her rooms inside the house.

Selma and Meena her attendants were already there when Mister Vaydesh had brought her to the temple house. They were around the same age and although she could not speak to them, they had filled her days with their chatter and laughter and love. They told her how Mister Vaydesh had taken them from their squalid homes in Jaipur, given their families money and brought them here to look after the needs of The Goddess. Soraya loved them both and welcomed their games and stories and they in turn loved her with a fierce and protective passion. Sisters in circumstance, all three played their role without question, a simple acceptance of luck and gratitude of their good fortune bound them. Meena had been reading out a story. She was the only one of them who could read and so every evening, after the blessing, they would eat their meals and then Meena would relate stories from the many books and magazines that she had requested from the well-wishers. Tonight’s story was from a holiday magazine, showing Goa, with its deep blue seas and seemingly endless coastline. The girls eagerly took in the pictures of the landscape and its people. They saw tourists in swimwear which made them giggle and gasp and they became excited with each picture. When they had finished, Meena stretched out on the thick green rug they were sitting on, and she said, dreamily, “I wish I could go there, wouldn’t it be wonderful to see the sea!” Selma joined in and they began to invent how they could make it happen and Soraya listened.

Chapter Four

The early morning sunlight shot through the trees in golden rods and into the unseeing eyes of Ramesh Sawali. He had been blind for twenty of his forty years, following a fall when mending the roof of a house. He had seen the local doctor who could do nothing and being poor he could not afford to pay for the city doctors and so he had remained in darkness the rest of his adult life. Many years he spent sitting in the one roomed hovel, of his parents. Friends came to see him over the years, but dropped away, until his only conversations were with his mother and father, usually during the evening meal, when they returned from their daily work in the sewing factory. When his father died, he and his mother were left alone. His mother was paid very little for the work she did and he could do nothing. It was dangerous to try to walk through the slums alone and so he had sat for hours, for days, for years, just listening to the sounds of the slums that clamoured in through the plastic strip door. It had been during his years of sitting that he had learned to go beyond his mind and into a place of meditation that gave him sight, of colours and people and places of great interest. It had been during his third year of blindness that he had felt his spirit lift out of his body and with practice he soon could enter the city, the factory where his mother worked and then further to other countries. He learned many things during these journeys. One year he travelled to Oxford in England and attended the lectures of a learned mathematician. Another year he chose to attend the classes of English Language students. Over the next ten years, his out of body travels took him to the arts and sciences and he took great pleasure in being educated to a high degree in all the subjects he attended. Sometimes a student would ‘feel’ his energy as he lingered next to him or her, and the student would wriggle about, his or her own inner self recognising Ramesh’s vibration. To his humour, and more than once, a student would be chastised by a teacher for continually moving and changing position whilst the teacher was talking. It was, in this way that Ramesh was educated in academic and also social spheres, for he also attended the parties of students and many of their residences, receiving a new found pleasure in the rooms themselves, of the furniture, the clothes the people wore and their conversations. Only once did someone see him. Whilst still in energy form, he had visited the home of a religious man who was a friend of some of the students.

Ramesh’s curiosity, after hearing the man’s religious conversations with others, took him to want to know more, so, by thought and faster than any of his teachers of physics could know or understand, Ramesh found himself immediately in the study of Mister Linton, the vicar of a small, and near to Oxford, village church.

The study was filled with books on philosophy and various religious beliefs and there Mister Linton sat, in his large brown leather chair, legs outstretched in front of his fire, reading the latest book titled, ‘The Hierarchy of Angels’.

Suddenly, the vicar sat upright and with a stunned look, his eyes scanned the room. He had sensed a different vibration and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his spine tingled. It seemed to the vicar that there was someone else in the room, he could sense it. Ramesh watched as Mister Linton stood slowly and shakily, and walked around his chair and as his eyes searched the room, he caught sight of the tiny golden specks of light, flickering and moving in every direction. Ramesh could feel-hear Mister Linton’s thoughts, he was thinking of love and at the same time asking if it was an angel in the room. The love Mister Linton emitted from his thoughts, were of a requesting and allowing nature and Ramesh could feel it within his own vibration and so he switched his focus to the book Mister Linton had been reading and with thought intent, the books’ own living atoms responded, and it slid to the floor, open at a page of a colourful picture of an Archangel. Mister Linton fell to his knees in prayer and Ramesh, feeling his love pour into his own energy, for a few seconds, became one with Mister Linton.

With a new sense of his being, Ramesh quickly returned to his mother’s home. This had been an interesting event and following it, Ramesh stopped travelling the globe and began to travel instead to the religious temples of his home country, India. It was during one of these, his India journeys, that Ramesh had arrived at the Temple of The Monkey Goddess.

Chapter Five

Chandra stepped back to survey the wooden carved figure, the overlay of plaster, shining out from its vibrantly painted form. It was the figure of The Goddess, sitting cross-legged on a wide and majestic chair. He sank to the floor as he gazed from the red silk tassels of the crimson wove cloth of the chair, up to the painted, blue and silver knees, which were crossed, with her brown feet, soles up, resting on each knee. The folds of her skirt painted painstakingly, so they fell just right in between the gold edges of her garment. The small brown waist had a gold band and a small six petal flower with a centre spot, all in the most vivid blue. The brown torso, slim and sweeping upwards was bare, and yet at the gentle rise of her breasts he had carved a necklace with painted gold dots, which hung from her shoulders, falling over the soft swell in a double chain, ending in three red dots, directly over the blue flower. Another row of golden dots fell from her neck, sitting just above her chest and another more ornate and thicker necklace of golden swirls, with an inner border of bright red dots and a red tassel in the centre. Each shoulder and arm to the elbow was swathed in golden painted sleeves of a cloth folding around the back of her neck. The neck was slim and either side sat a bright blue earring, hanging from small brown ears. The headdress was magnificent crown of five upward points of gold, the two either side having blue four- petal flowers, the centre being red with golden swirls. His eyes moved to her face, small and light brown, with a straight sloping nose with only a slight raised tip and a small but full red mouth, lilting at the sides, to give a mysterious smile. But it was her eyes that held him, thick and black painted eyelashes, encompassing the white, and a pair of soft, brown and black orbs sat, gently staring out. A flicker of white on each iris brought her to life and as he gazed into them, he began to kneel, as an overwhelming rush of emotion engulfed him. This was his forgiveness. This work of art and beauty, this dedicated and all- consuming work had been his salvation. For only a year ago, he had been slumped in the streets of Delhi, in an opium- filled sleep, living his life of thief and beggar to fill his need for the soft powder of servitude that had become his master. He had knocked a man down in the dark of the night, stolen his money bag and run into the train station, where he could meet an opium seller, but as he waited, sitting on the station floor, a group of policemen with their batons in their hands, came in to clear the station from criminals. He was known to them and he knew he was in for a beating.

So he walked to the platform barriers and sneaked past as the ticket man was busy talking. A train was about to set off and he quickly jumped onto it. That had been the start of a journey that took him begging and stealing his way from place to place, until his body, racked with pain of opium withdrawal, gave out, and he collapsed at the side of a road, tired of living, and ready to die. It was by chance that a large vehicle stopped that day, the driver relieving himself on the pile of rags at the side of the road. The rags moved and the driver, startled, jumped back with a loud shout. The female passenger came to look what was happening and they discovered Chandra’s body beneath the rags. She called to her husband to say what they had found and he had ordered that Chandra be brought into the vehicle. Her husband was a doctor, travelling to Champash the village of The Monkey Goddess, where he was to offer his services to the poor and the sick.

Chandra was treated and cared for and he began to help with the grounds of the Temple, chopping wood, tending the vegetables and living a peaceful and purposeful life. There was, always work to do at the hospitals, making more sheds and buildings with the other men and women who also had found their peace. His spare time was spent carving and he did so, with the memories of his father and grandfather, both creating furniture and figures, to scrape their living. As a child he had watched them and listened carefully to their instructions, carving and imitating their skills. As he remembered, he could still recall the smell of the wood and hear his mother’s cries, when later, one after the other, they were killed by the cholera outbreak of their village. His mother had taken him to the city, to survive the disease, but the city had eaten him in its greedy mouth. He remembered that she used to say, “Don’t forget, you are made from the stars”, but she died before he ever bothered to ask her meaning. When he was asked by Selma, the Goddess’ companion to make a carving of The Goddess, he was aware of the great privilege he was given, and was determined to make the most exquisite figure that he could make. Selma had explained that The Goddess in human form was now to be absent for six months of every year, so it was her wish that a figure be made of her and stand in her place, with her essence within it. A long and thick strand of The Goddess’ hair was given to him, which he carefully added to the plaster, so that her human energy was within her figure.

As he gazed at her now, his emotions released in his tears, a peace and a joy filled him completely. He, Chandra had created this beautiful thing, in service and to the love of his own forgiveness. He would deliver it with his helpers this night, taking it through the gardens at the rear of the Temple, and place it in the ante room, with its plaster covered wall, near to the entrance. For it would be the next evening when The Goddess appeared, that Selma was to announce to the crowds that The Goddess would only be appearing in her human form for six months of every year, but her essence within the figure would remain with them and appear every evening as usual.

Later, as Chandra lay in his bed, looking at the stars, his mother’s phrase came to mind,

“Remember, you are from the stars” and he understood her meaning for the first time.

Chapter 6

Doctor David O Connell sat in the window seat of the plane, his son’s long legs stretching beside him as the craft took off, leaving a snow-flurried New York behind. As they gained height, he looked down below at the city and knew he would never see it with the same eyes again. Life had given him everything he wanted and then ripped it from him by an ugly hand, with its long and jagged nails, ripping and tearing at the flesh of his heart. His son leaned over to look out and with his face very near to his own, David now looked at him also with different eyes. Michael was tall and healthy, a natural tanned skin, black brows, thick black eyelashes, all a gift from his mother, but the strikingly blue eyes were definitely those from David’s Irish heritage. Sometimes, when together, it was hard to believe Michael was his son, David stood slightly shorter with a thick shock of blonde hair, the fairest skin colour and there was only those Irish blue eyes that told of their bloodline. Michael leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, a welcome silence between them. As the seat belt light went off, David released his, and taking the blue canvas bag from in between his feet, he gently placed it on his lap.

She had been eighteen years old when he met her, on Candolim beach in Goa, India. She was tall and slender with black hair to her waist, tied in a long thick plait. Her bright yellow sari, slipping from her shoulder as she had gathered her skirts to run with her friend toward where he lay on his beach bed. They laughed, teeth flashing, eyes shining, girls in magic. They were running from the local police, who walked the beaches once a day, trying to stop the hawkers from harassing the tourists. Many groups of girls walked the beach, selling their jewellery, trinkets and tattoos and other services of massage, public or privately by arrangement. The smaller girl spoke hurriedly to her friend whilst taking the girls trinket bag and slipping her own from her shoulder, she pushed them both under his bed and covered them with sand. Pushing her green sari scarf back over her shoulder, she parted her lips in a sweet persuasive smile,

“We are not selling anything, we will just stay and sit and talk with you until the policemen have gone, is that okay?”

David smiled back, “Yeah, that’s fine.” It had happened every day during this, the first week of his vacation, different girls, but the same reason. The girl leaned forward,

“My name is Meena. What is your name?”

“David” He glanced at the other girl as he spoke. She was beautiful, her eyes downcast, but watching him from under her thick black, delicious eyelashes. Meena held her hand out to him, “You are English?”

“No, American” He shook her hand and then offered his hand out to the other girl.

“This is Soraya.” Meenaspoke quickly, “She doesn’t speak.” Then in her own language she urged the other girl to shake his hand. Soraya slipped her small hand into his and their eyes met. David felt a massive rush of electric, fizzing and tingling, rushing up his arm, up his spine and to then burst in his head. His body jumped back in shock and he let go of her hand. He sat stunned, looking at the beautiful girl in complete wonder as to what had just happened.

Meena carefully watched as the police came nearer and continued with her chatter. “She doesn’t talk. So where in America do you come from? Do you like Goa? How long are you here for?” David answered robotically, still staring at the other girl, who now sat with her head turned away, quietly listening.

“New York. Yes it’s beautiful, here for three weeks’ vacation, been here a week.”

Meena continued talking, about Goa and where he should visit whilst he was there and all the time, he stared at the other girl, his thoughts on what had just happened. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced, and all the while, the object of his attention, sat, quiet and serene, glancing up now and then to meet his eyes. Breaking his stare, he turned to Meena and asked, “Why doesn’t she speak?”

Meena pointed to her own mouth and tongue. “She can’t speak. She has never spoken. She can make sounds, but she cannot speak.” The policemen glanced over as they walked past.

“What sort of sounds?”David was intrigued. Meena spoke to the girl and she smiled.

David went on, “Ask her to say hello to me.”

Meena laughed nervously, “She can’t speak, I’ve told you, she can only make sounds” and she again spoke to the girl, this time quietly, all the while looking over her shoulder, watching, waiting for the policemen to be far enough away, for them to safely, move on. He held his hand out to the girl again and spoke gently,

“Hello Soraya. My name is David. I am a Doctor from New York, America.”

Soraya slowly raised her head, glancing at his outstretched hand and she placed hers inside it once more, and as she did, she began to make noises. David listened intently and watched her mouth and tongue as she spoke. He could tell that the ape-like noises were caused by restriction of the tongue. Keeping hold of her hand and smiling reassuringly he turned to Meena.

“Tell her I am a Doctor from America and I can perhaps, help her to talk”

Meens’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and then laughingly she said,

“She can hear you. She can understand English, I taught her. She just can’t speak. I think we should go now.”

The policemen were a long way down the beach now and she began to get up. David was still holding Soraya’s hand and he was looking deep into her eyes as he spoke slowly, “Let me look into your mouth please. I can help you perhaps?”

Her hand slipped from his as she opened her mouth and he began to examine inside. Meena became agitated and began to speak urgently to her. David did not know the language she spoke but he knew she was urging Soraya to come away from him. Soraya stayed, quietly sitting as David examined her tongue and mouth. Then picking up her hand again in both of his, he pressed them warmly.

“I can help you. I have seen this before. I am a specialist Doctor in the area of ears nose and throat. This is a simple operation. I can cut the tissue that restricts your tongue from moving and within a few weeks you will be able to speak.”

Soraya looked up at Meena, listening as Meena now even more agitated was speaking very fast and she took Soraya’s arm and tried to pull her away. Soraya shook her off and still with her hand in David’s, she smiled and pulling her hand from his she lifted both palms up in questioning gesture .

Meena sat back down on the sand and quietly but sternly spoke.

“How can you do such a thing? We have no money.”

David explained that he was staying in the apartment of an Indian colleague from the hospital where he worked in New York, and who was a friend. He had offered David the apartment he owned in Goa, on the beach at Candolim. The main hospital in the city of Panjim, not far from the area, would be the hospital he could perform the operation in. He could telephone his friend in America and ask him to arrange with the hospital to loan him the use of their facilities and staff for him to carry out the operation. He, David, would pay all the bills.

“Why would you do this for us?” Meena asked, suspecting a hidden agenda.

David had been stunned by her question and took a few moments before he replied and running his fingers through his hair, he simply said, “I don’t know.”

Meena continued to press Soraya to leave, but without success, as David began talking to them both and explained the operation and how Soraya’s tongue would be released. He ordered fresh pineapple juice and samosa’s and as he continued to speak, the sun began to sink and both girls sat relaxed, bathed in a gentle pink and yellow glow.

“Where are you staying?”

“We live with the beach girls in a tent behind the shacks, just further down the beach.” Meena was now more relaxed, even showing some excitement, once she had realised that Soraya was happy with the plans. David pulled out his rucksack from under the bed and gathering his book and towel, he stuffed them inside the bag.

“I will ring my friend in New York within the hour and I will meet you here, tomorrow at three in the afternoon, to tell you the arrangements. Okay?”

The two girls nodded back to him and Soraya’s eyes lingered on his as they began to walk away, her yellow sari blowing its skirts as the soft evening wind caught it with her strides.

Whenever David remembered back to that meeting, he still felt, what he always described as, ‘that uncanny intimacy, of a, meant- to- be moment’.

Michael nudged him. “Dad, would you like a drink?”

The uniform of the flight attendant came into view and David shook himself from his slumber.

“Yeah, lemon-water please”

Michael took the menus out of the seat pouch in front of him and read out the choices. David reached down to his feet and carefully pulled the blue bag onto his knee and rising said,

“I’m going to the toilet”

Michael began to get out of his seat to let him pass,

“You can leave it on your seat Dad”

David ignored the statement and carrying the blue canvas bag in his arms, he carefully made his way down the aisle of the plane.

Chapter Seven

Meena held her long neck up to the gentle and soft winnowing wind as it lifted the hot sandy dirt from the sides of the road. Champash had changed so much in the last twenty or so years. Since arriving as a young teenager, the one long brick building, originally built by Mr Vaydesh as a treatment building for the sick, was still there, but now used as a store, and, rising up amongst the trees and shrubbery surrounding it, there was now, a three storey hospital with its brightly painted yellow and green walls, that stood smiling at its neighbour, another hospital, smaller of two storeys, and ten, one- floor, long buildings used for extra wards, dentistry, treatment rooms and spiritual healings and meditation. The whole of the hospitals and their buildings and grounds were now the centre of a sprawling series of dirt track roads, where shops and stores and cafes belonged to each other. The lodging houses for the doctors, students and pilgrims had been built also along either side of each road and she remembered how with each structure Mr Vaydesh had stood day after day, watching proudly and calling out to the workers, when his wife and her mother arrived with the food and the water. Each building was brightly painted in yellow, green, red and white, some with large orange suns, shining their rays across the plaster, some with paintings of The Goddess. Many people bustled in every direction, to and from the hospitals, in and out of the cafes and children’s songs and their laughter mingled in the hot scented air as they played in front of ‘The Children’s House’, the large yellow building, the sanctuary for orphans. Festoons of jasmine hung from the arms of lean and brown, white loin-clothed men as they walked along handing the flower garlands out to all who showed interest. Women in bright and beautiful saris of pink, purple, red, blue and green merged in the scene, a rainbow of industry as they melted into their daily purpose.

Yes, she thought, it was all so different now. Hundreds of people came to Champash village, but now it was no longer a village but had transformed into a beautiful laughing town of love and service, whose fingers of brick and clay and paint stretched out lovingly, caringly, into the vital nature surrounding them and in co-operation with the walls, the climbers clung to every building, throwing scented colour in every direction and the trees overseeing their vigour.

As she walked slowly, toward what had become known as The Temple Road, with its thick trees and shrubbery either side, the noise of the town abated and stillness drifted down and settled in the red dust. Like an unspoken rule, all the hundreds of pilgrims that came every evening to receive the blessings of The Goddess, were gone in the morning, taking their bundles and mats and cushions, leaving only their ribbons and necklaces and trinkets, hanging in the branches of the trees and shrubs, so that over time, the whole of the red road became lined with glinting and chinking and tinkling sparkle. Meena had been gone for over two hours and evening would soon be here. She had left David and his son alone for a while in the rear garden of The Temple and now as she returned, her thoughts had been taken to her friend Soraya, who had emitted a love and gratitude that she had felt from no other human. Meena had watched Soraya grow from a young and silent spirit into a laughing and carefree one, as she had run on the sands of Goa, hair down and blowing behind her, like a glistening brown thoroughbred horse, kicking the surf, as it rolled and crept to her feet. She had watched Soraya’s joy in the finding of her voice, a gift from David and his skill in surgery and she had delighted in teaching her sister of love, to speak all the words that until then, she had only heard. Meena’s smile stretched across her face as she remembered observing the exchange of emotion as David and Soraya fell in love and then, the look of amazement on his face when they had to tell him the truth of who Soraya really was. A chuckle escaped from her throat as she called the moment to mind.

David had wanted Soraya to return to America with him, but Soraya, shaking her head gently had explained to him that she was a Goddess and so had a duty to the Earth and the Sky. Meena could see he did not understand fully, but when Soraya went on to explain to him that her role on the planet was the choice to create love, he had then realised the strength of that purpose and he then had decided to return to Champash with them, when the time was due, to see Soraya as The Goddess for himself. He did, and then he returned to America, leaving a note with Meena that he would meet Soraya in Goa in six months.

Meena looked up at the sound of the crow. It sat on the branch of the broad and rubbery tree looking down at her, then it hopped onto a lower branch, to inspect the glint of a golden shiny string of beads, hanging almost still but for the slight movement from the whisper of air beneath . She walked on, past the crow, the red road becoming slightly wider, recalling in her mind, David’s return to Goa. Soraya had been calm and serene as they had walked to the villa where he stayed at Candolim Beach, but Meena’s heart had thumped with the question, would he be there? David was there and Meena watched as the two people blossomed in their love, like a lotus flower opening with its blush still intact. It was pure and shining and touched those who observed it and those who like Meena, were grateful to receive it, as part of her life too.

David had so many plans. His Indian Doctor friend in America had found a way of getting for him a false passport and birth certificate for Soraya and arranged for a local magistrate to marry them, as well as a local Hindu priest. Soraya would return to Champash for six months and then would return to America with David as his wife and every six months, returning to Champash and every six months returning to America. Soraya and David were married in a Temple in Goa, amongst the scent and sounds of India and her beloved people. The following years Soraya and David lived in New York, David working in the hospital and Soraya a volunteer in a homeless shelter. Every six months she returned to Champash.

Meena looked up and through the trees to her right, at the gleaming gold and white of The Temple’s domed roof. It had been an addition by Mr Vaydesh many years ago as more and more pilgrims began to arrive. It reminded her now of the gold and white cover that Soraya had brought back with her from New York, after she had given birth to her child, and Meena recalled how she and Selma and Soraya would hold it to their faces to smell the child’s essence in it. How they would pour over his photographs, each time she returned and they would laugh at his childish poses and praise his sturdy looking frame. It had filled them with such delight, watching this child grow, even in photographs and the stories about him, from his mother’s lips. Sometimes Meena felt that Michael was partly her child, even though she had never met him.

The years had passed and life became a kind and meandering path, on which Meena and Selma strolled, in the wonder and joy at the growing numbers of pilgrims of Champash. The friendships they made were with many and when some of the pilgrims returned after years away, Meena and Selma were there to greet them and The Goddess, in her human form and sometimes in her chosen form, of her carved figure, was always there to bless them.

It was after a blessing one evening, when Meena and Selma closed The Temple porch doors for the night and after saying their thanks to The Goddess figure, and, after eating their meal together, that they retired as usual to their separate rooms. As Meena had walked past the temple porch, she had the strong urge to go back into it and she stood in front of The Goddess, not really knowing why she had felt the urge to return. The moonlight had filtered inside, in a muted light, through the side cracks of the door, and as she gazed up to The Goddess’ face a strange and soft glow seemed to have settled on the face and around the head of the figure. Suddenly, the back of her neck began to tingle, the hairs on her arms rose from their beds and as a rush of energy passed through her body, Meena dropped to her knees as she watched Soraya’s face appear in the face of the figure, smiling her smile, alive and shining in front of her. It lasted but a few moments, yet the overwhelming rush of love that had surged through her own inner tidal seas, stayed with Meena from that day on.

It was three days later that she had received the news from David in America, that Soraya was dead.

In the letter that had arrived from New York, David wrote that Soraya was having lunch with her son in a New York restaurant. Michael had plans to go into politics. His youth and arrogance and ambitions, were to use the contacts from his years of private education, to enter the world of politics and rise within the government circles. After hearing this from him, David and Soraya had privately discussed their son’s futile ambitions and they had agreed that she would take Michael out for lunch the following day, and explain gently about her life as The Goddess ,in India and she would explain firmly to him, that if he entered the world of politics, her false passport, false visa, and her other reality would someday be exposed.

Michael had taken it badly, had accused her of ruining his life, of lying about her yearly trips to India, that her reasons given of ‘serving her family in India’ had been misleading him. He rushed out of the restaurant and ran across the street, his mother following him. A fast moving car drove straight into her and Soraya was killed instantly.

He went on to say that he and Michael would be coming to Champash after the funeral service.

Chapter Eight

The late afternoon sun was still warm on her face as Selma surveyed the garden from her seat on the long wooden bench. The tall Banyan trees with their spreading branches to either side leaned next to the Rosewood and the Cassia bushes. She loved this garden of tranquillity which she and Chandra had lovingly shaped, allowing the wild and the free plants to welcome and share their positions with the cultivated ones. Borders of marigolds, lilies and orchids painted a climbing canvas of striking colour, reflecting the sun and the shades of the sky above them with their oranges and yellows, purple and red glory. The long rectangle of ochre-red sand and small chipped red bricks lay in a centre path mosaic on the floor. In the centre of the rectangle Chandra had built a concrete pool with a fountain in the middle, where the water spilled down into the base. Birds of every size and colour came to drink and bathe and it was where frogs and toads could be seen resting on the red painted rim.

She and Chandra had spent many hours together in the garden, sometimes without speaking for hours, but when tea and food was brought by Meena and when she had left, they had sat in deep conversation together about the nature around them. They shared a love of the natural cycle of all the lives they observed and assisted in this their beloved place. A love had grown between them and after The Blessing of The Goddess, each evening, they took to sitting in the moonlight, each enjoying the scented night jasmine as it caressed their bodies, and they would stare at the stars and know that they were part of the pattern of life.

Selma thought now of how when they were younger, she and Meena and Soraya would jump into the fountain well, throwing water onto each other, laughing and playing until they were soaked and Soraya would catch the seemingly coloured water as it fell from the fountain, the sun creating its prism of liquid rainbows.

She glanced over to the two large rose bushes, one of red roses and the other of pink, these being Soraya’s favourites. Soraya would pick the flower heads and put them in a bowl of water and place the bowl at the feet of her carved figure every day for the six months of the year when she was at the temple.

It was a ritual that Soraya performed alone and without speaking, she would bring the bowl, fill it with water from the fountain and pick the roses, then placing them in her bowl, she would carefully make her way to The Goddess room, where her carved figure sat waiting, and placing the bowl at The Goddess’ feet, she would sit cross-legged on the floor and meditate. Selma had watched her many times through the small window, and had been touched immensely by the peaceful look on Soraya’s face as she began to sway her head from side to side as if she was listening to music. In the early days Soraya had not been able to speak, except for the monkey type noises she made, but after meeting David, she had returned to the temple with speech. Not a babbling excited rushed speech as one would imagine someone to have, after years of only listening. No, she had returned with a quiet soft and lilting speech that in itself was almost like a slow moving stream, lifting and falling gently over the reeds.

Her thoughts of David brought Selma’s attention back to the garden bench opposite her, where David and his son now sat. David looked old, tired and his face had the pain of grief wrote in its lines. His right arm clutched a blue canvas bag, his left was around his sons shoulder, in an awkward stretch. Michael leaned forward, staring at the sparrow bathing in the fountain. David had been talking then resting, then talking, then resting, all afternoon, as he explained who Selma was, who Meena was, and about the temple. Michael had always believed them to be the relatives of his mother. Relatives he never saw but heard of occasionally, at times, when he overheard his parent’s conversations. His life in America had been so full with school and friends and college, that he showed little or no interest in his mother’s trips to India ‘to serve her family’ every six months. He had conjured up in his mind a picture of relatives living in poverty and ill health and he had had no desire to visit or know more about them. His American grandmother came to look after himself and his father for six months every year and his life was fortunate and easy. Now, as his father’s words invaded that world, his head was filled with disbelief, wonder, awe and amazement, that his mother, his sweet and unassuming mother, was The Goddess.

Selma watched as Meena and Chandra entered the garden and she rose from her seat to greet them. They stood to the side of David and Michael and Selma took David’s hand.

“It is time.” She spoke in a whisper.

David’s blue eyes met hers and flicked to Meena and Chandra then down to the blue canvas bag. He unzipped it and took out the wooden vase. Meena took Michaels hand and following Chandra to the pink and red rose bushes, they all stood as a silent group as David unscrewed the lid of the vase. Chandra bent down and scooping the red and black soil from around the roots of the bushes with his hands, he looked up and nodded to Selma. David caught the sign and he handed the vase to Chandra and as he poured the ashes around the roots of each bush, Selma spoke,

“May your body return to the Earth, our sister, our beloved star and may your Stars of Light become with the Earth as your other Stars rise in the Sky. We thank you for your Earthly gifts and rejoice in your spiritual ones. Always and forever with us Goddess, we bless you, as you, poured your blessings upon us.”

As she came to the end Chandra covered the ashes with his hands and patted the Earth down until it was smooth.

Chapter Nine

The night sky was alive with the silver glittering stars, and Temple Road was full of pilgrims. There was little noise as they had all walked to their chosen places. A crowd of silent humans, some limping, some carrying others in their arms, some in wheelchairs, some in suits and all of the women in sari-splendour of colours. Blankets draped over their shoulders, some had cushions many had incense sticks and cones and candles and most wore jasmine and marigold garlands. They sat, they crouched, they lay and they stood, in the field opposite the temple and along its road, surrounding the front and sides, all for a glimpse of The Goddess. A hundred or more candles glowed in their glass jar holders, incense floated in the air and the shadows of faces and forms flickered everywhere as a growing stillness and energy of anticipation began to rise amongst the throng.

David and Michael stood together. Next to David was a man in a wheelchair, a Doctor who ran the free hospital, there with his wife and family beside him. To Michaels left a man, tall and intense looking who caught his eye as Michael glanced,

“Hello. I am Divandr.”

He held out his hand and Michael took it.

“Hi, I am Michael.”

The man smiled as he spoke.

“American?”

Michael nodded. The man held out his bottle of water to Michael and urged him to take it.

“No thanks. I’m fine.”

“Is this your first time here?” He asked.

Michael did not want a conversation and so answered him in a clipped,

“Yes.”

To Michael’s impatience and annoyance, the man then leaned toward him touching his arm with his hand.

“It was I that The Goddess, gave the first blessing to.”

Michael stared into his face. He looked to be in his mid- to- late thirties maybe, quite good looking, good clothes and had an air of pride as he was speaking.

“This is my father and mother and grandmother, we come every week. My father built The Temple and Hospitals for The Goddess.”

His chest puffed out as he spoke, waving his hand to point out the elderly gentleman next to him and the women sitting on their cushions. They all looked up and nodded to him in greeting.

The man continued,

“Whatever you are offering, the Goddess will give you her blessing for your life.”

Divandr’s words seemed to amplify in Michael’s ears and then his mind. He looked away, staring at the temple doors, as the energy of the awaiting crowd built. The words rolling over and over in his mind, repeating,

“Whatever you are offering…whatever you are offering…whatever you are offering” Like a piece of poetry from an unseen artists pen, the words arrived, sliding past his mind’s eye, like a rolling news bulletin. What was he offering? And to whom?

Suddenly the doors of The Temple shuddered, as they opened from inside. An audible gasp was heard from the crowd as Selma and Meena opened wide, each door, and fastened them back to the walls. They walked down the steps unnoticed as every eye was on the large life-sized figure of the beautiful Goddess, sitting in her chair. The many candles in the porch and steps lit up the figure and a large murmur rippled through the crowd, gathering momentum, each pilgrim with hands clasped in prayer. Michael stared at his mother’s form, stunned at how life like it was. She was beautiful and young and vibrantly painted.

He glanced at this father David who had tears running down his face and reached for his hand. His mother must have looked like this when his father met her, he thought to himself. His head was spinning and his legs began to shake.

The words of Divandr repeated in his head,

“Whatever you are offering, whatever you are offering, whatever you are offering.”

David stared at his wife’s face. She looked alive and wondrous to him and he knew she had only ever been sent to him for a short time. Her purpose had been of a greater one than just that of his wife, he could see that in the people who were here in their hundreds, the work they did at the hospitals, the service they offered and the love they created and although he cried inside for her body, her wonderful warm and loving arms, he could let go to the knowledge that Soraya was eternal.

Chapter 10

I was afraid, when I was first brought to this Temple. Two girls were there waiting inside to greet me. They looked as scared as I was and I felt sorry for them both. I remember we stared at each other for a while and then as girls do, we all three began to laugh. We ran around the building in awe at the size of the rooms and we chose which rooms we would have for our own. Yet, I now laughingly recall how when it came to retire that night, we had huddled together in the smallest room and slept in the safety of each other’s warmth.

On the second night we had all three been brave enough to go to our rooms and laying on my mattress, on the floor, I eventually drifted off to sleep. I awoke to a singing sound in my head, it was my mother’s voice and I automatically began to move my head to sway to its sound. I was filled with the now familiar rushing, dizziness I had had since a child and then I felt my body lift from its form and rise above The Temple, and the Earth. I wasn’t afraid, for I had experienced this many times as a child and throughout my growing years. Everything was white, and my mother’s song continued and I continued also to sway my head to its lilts until I became with the music, and became the music. I could see nothing of my form, but I could feel that I was of the energy of music and I became each of the notes. It was with this marvel occurring that shapes began to form and appearing before me were the Gods and Goddesses of my people. They placed a crown upon my head and reminded me of the choice I had taken when I chose my human form, the choice of becoming with the Goddess of Blessings of Love and Creating. In an instant of recognition, I was elated with the co-operation and joining of energies for this purpose and the music I had become danced amongst their forms, as they too danced in that joy. I returned to my body, a body which now was the human vital living encasing for a combined energy of purpose and I was no longer afraid of anything.

I had many years of love, in human terms with my husband David and my son Michael. The purpose of which was to serve their needs, for enlightenment in all aspects of love and service.

My friends and companions Meena and Selma served me also as I them, with and by unconditional love, and the pilgrims and spirits and souls who came to Champash, were each and every one, blessed by me, The Goddess, in co-operation and with, the energy, of whatever their offering was, and the blessings they received, that were also to be.

When my human form was gone, my energy remained, some with The Goddess figure and some in the hearts and souls of all who were to come.

I am in gratitude of the human being who through service and love of others, adds to the radiance of the Realms of Wisdom and to me, Soraya Singh, The Goddess.

This story is the Sole intellectual property of Janine Lever of 19 Hall Road, Uttoxeter, Staffs. 01889~567387/ 07855690780. This story should not be copied in any way without the Authors permission. 30/10/2020.

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