The Wound of Soma – Part One

© Kishor Parekh

 

Soma was born in the small village of Tarimul, near the bank of the Sendhel River, in the Kendujhar district of the state of Orissa, 160 km from the capital Bhubaneswar.

And she had a sad story.

When she was just 14 years old, she refused the harassing courtship of an overbearing cousin; he was 28 years old and was known by everyone in the village for his violent temper. He also tried to ask to the father to marry her, but she cried a whole night at her mother's feet begging not to accept – she would rather take her own life that very night.

 

© Anderlini, Gia

One morning, while Soma was walking towards the river holding the kalash, the earthenware jug  to get water, her cousin jumped out of the tall grass, cover her mouth with his hand, dragging her into the thick vegetation, threw her to the ground and in an instant he was on top of her.

The poor girl tried to wriggle out and scream but he slapped her hard, lifted the long skirt of the sari, tore off her panties and penetrated her violently. He abused Soma for over twenty minutes, while she did nothing but cry.

Having achieved his pleasure, not satisfied with the humiliation, he promised from that day no other man would ever want her or ask for as a bride; then he took a small bottle of clear liquid from the pocket and threw it at her face.

Soma didn't have time to think that excruciating pain burned the skin of her face. It was so intense and terrible that she no longer felt the pain between the legs as her blood browned the barren earth.

The screams full of terror and suffering caused by the acid brought some peasants to rush and they found themselves in front of a scene that they could never forget.

 

© Ugo Panella

Soma was taken to the hospital. She stayed there for months.

When she was able to return home to the small village, the children and women went out into the street to see her face ravaged by acid. Her mother, Parvati, covered her wounds with the veil of the sari, begging for mercy through tears to those women who looked upon her daughter with disgust and compassion.

Soma, like the meaning of her name which is proper to the Moon, did not leave her room for years: like the moon, she hid in the night of her small room of stone and mud.

She prayed and read. She wrote poetry and ate almost nothing. Her brothers were also ashamed to see her.

Her father, a peasant who could neither read nor write but was very devout, wept and questioned the gods about the reason for that fateful fate that fell upon his family, it was not enough to have had a daughter, even with a disfigured face. No dowry would have been enough for her to be asked for in marriage.

 

© Raghu Rai

Many seasons passed and Soma was now a young woman; over time she began to go out, always with her veil embodying the face.

Her mother often sat with her, while in the khal batta* she ground chutney* and masala, in the back of the house where her husband had planted saplings.

By now even the villagers had forgotten that sad story of the past, even if time helps to heal better the wounds of memory than of the skin – their morbid curiosity had given way to indifference.

Sometimes, Parvati would sit next to her and hug, stroking her dark-skinned arm.

“My daughter, do you know why children are called putra?”

Soma, who never looked anyone in the eyes, shook her head no.

Then the mother took her face in her hands and turned it toward her. The girl tried to turn it away but Parvati blocked her face with steady hands, and with voice as sweet as the gaze said:

“Because a child pulls, tra, the parents out of hell, pu”.

Then she caressed her cheek consumed by the acid: “You are our salvation, never forget it...”, she continued, wiping with the tip of her calloused finger a tear that was falling slowly.

 

© Ugo Panella

Soma had big dark eyes, fleshy lips, and long shiny hair like the ocean at night.

Over the years, secluded in her small room, she had developed an enormous talent for poetry and nothing gave her more pleasure than reading and memorizing classical poems.

When she was out of the house, she spent hours looking at the two small trees planted by her father grow, while she read and recited poetry.

The suffering had given her an out-of-the-ordinary intelligence that began to reach the neighboring villages. Among the men, it was rumored that in the village of Tarimul there was a young woman with a disfigured face but endowed with intellect and excellent poetic ability.

Parvati often stayed at the window watching her daughter from the back, trying to decipher what fate would meet that unfortunate daughter.

 

© Raghu Rai

 

The father had long ago accepted the will the gods had chosen for her daughter. After the work in the fields and the time in the farmyard with the daughter, he went on foot to the nearby Temple dedicated to Hanuman, the monkey-faced god, son of Pavana and Anjana, and offered him his prayers to heal Soma from the malicious influences.

Her mother did the same every morning after a shower and in the evening at sunset, before seven in the evening in the month of Sravana*. She prepped the dipa, the oil lamp with the wicks with butter or camphor, the incense, the fruit on the patra, the dish for the offerings, and after washing her feet, mouth, and hands, she knelt in front of the bigraha* with the murti, the sacred image of Laksmi and Jagannath, and recited the puja, the prayer, begging to free the daughter from the influence of the evil spirits that prevented her from smiling.

Soma and her father rarely talked about but he liked listening to her reciting poems while giving water to the roots of the two trees that grew month after month.

 

© Abbas

Every evening at sunset, a young man came from the nearby village, walking for miles, to spy from the corner of the house that girl with her face hidden by the veil reciting verses to her father.

    “And then, colored by the rays of the soft twilight,
    the pair of birds named as the Hari's weapon
    detached rises in flight, as if sprinkled with blood
    poured from open hearts for the pain of separation.”

Soma recited with a warm voice, when the father turned to her and asked: “What wonderful lines, jhia*, but what do they mean?”

Soma smiled into the transparency of her yellow veil. “They are the verses of the poet Magha. He is only describing the sunset, bapa*,” she said, pointing with the hand at the sun disappearing over the orange-painted hill.

Even the young man looked towards the sunset, just like the old man.

“At dusk, a pair of red geese take off, they are a male and a female and they are separating. The poet calls the geese with the name of the weapon of the god Visnu, and the curse of Rama wants that every night the loving couple must separate to meet again in the morning: their wounded heart is tinged with the blood of the color of the sunset.”

The young man, afraid of being seen, walked away still stunned by the beauty of those verses he had never heard.

 

© Luigi Primoli

Soma prayed and read eagerly those few books that an uncle had brought from the city. There were no mirrors in her room. Just the bed, a wooden table, and her bigraha with puja tools.

The next day, at the same time before sunset, that boy with his feet dirty with earth from the long walk was there again, hiding in the corner of the house listening to the voice of Soma delighting her father, bent over to pour water with love at the roots of trees.

    “The sound of the vina, the emotion of poetry,
    the taste of music, the games of love...:
    whoever does not sink into it, drowns; comes instead
    to the other shore whoever sinks into it, entirely.”

The elderly father, once again, questioned his daughter about the meaning of those verses.

“Bapa, these are wonderful lines from Bihari Lal: only those who know how to immerse themselves entirely in the melody of a poem are like lovers, able to escape the sufferings of life and enjoy the highest happiness.”

While the boy listened entranced, Parvati went around the house and when she reached the stranger's back, she hit him with a stick.

“What are you doing here like a thief? Go away!” She yelled at him, making the young man run like a hare through the village streets.

Soma, frightened, completely covered her face and took refuge in the room – the heart jolting the chest.

In the evening, while she was performing arati*, she wept until she fell asleep without appetite or dreams.

 

© Raghu Rai

 

TO BE CONTINUED...

* Stone mortar.
* Spicy condiment based on fruit or vegetables with vinegar, spices, and sugar, typical of India.
* The month from July to August.
* The small altar for praying in every home.
* Jhia is the name used by parents for their daughters.
* Bapa, is what the father is called in Orissa, and Maa the mother.
* Arati is the veneration of an image accomplished by moving in a circular way lamp of camphor or lit oil placed on a plate in front of the image.

Italian version