The Wound of Soma – Part Two

“One may not reach the dawn
save by the path of the night.”
(Gibran)

© Roland Michaud

 

In the following days, Soma did not leave the house; she helped her mother grind sauces for dinner. She looked from the window, in the dim light, her father tending the trees that grew tall.

Parvati, at that time, looked out behind the wall of the house to see that unknown boy pausing for a long time in the corner and then leaving sadly.

 

The father questioned, after the prayer, the Brahmin of the temple about the fate of his daughter.

He replied, “Every material and human being has three qualities, or virtues, called gunas: sattva, light, rajas, agitation, and tamas, darkness. Each of these qualities is rooted within us and the essence of our path is always to reach happiness, sukha, experiencing unhappiness, duhkha.

“Don't be afraid, your daughter will find peace and light, through darkness and turmoil.”

 

© Abbas

Parvati walked over to Soma, while she was preparing the wicks for dupa, stroked her black hair gathered around her neck, “Your father loves your poems so much. Why don't you go...? Trees need water as well as your art.”

Soma looked at the mother, nodded and covered her face with the ochre veil, and went out into the yard.

The old father, aware of her presence, smiled deeply. Soma went to sit on a reclining tree trunk next to him.

“They grow strong and tall, and lean towards each other,” the elder said as he clapped his hands on the moist, gnarled soil of the roots.

Parvati went around the house and came behind the boy, who, frightened, instinctively covered his face with his arms; then he saw that the woman was not brandishing any branches, and lowered his hands.

“Go sit there!” The mother said in a firm voice as she pointed to a bench where some children were sitting, at the side of the yard.

 

As soon as Soma noticed the boy going to sit among the children, she jumped up and walked briskly towards the door, but Parvati stopped her.

“Go back jhia, recite your poem, fear not: make your father happy.”

The girl hid her face with the veil leaving only the eyes free and reached the trunk.

The young man could not take his eyes off that mysterious girl: from the payal* that tinkled silver at every step to the brown color of the hands, from the ochre sari that shaped her thin body to the black hair that could be glimpsed from the transparent veil behind her neck.

Soma, lying on the trunk, began to recite:

    “At her pleasure, she moves in the courtyard of the house, but she takes shelter from my sight,
    the lucky ones she stares in the eyes, she only half looks at me,
    with others chat and chat when I arrive, she closes in silence:
    the one I love has also brought me out of the world of common me.”

 

“Woman putting on makeup”. (Sheet, Mankot, circa 1710)

 

“Splendid, my daughter, but what does it mean?” Her father asked as he stroked the bark of the trees as wrinkled as his face.

“These lines are from an anonymous poet, Bapa,” Soma replied with her left hand holding the edge of the veil to cover the cheeks.

“He describes the love that has not yet blossomed, the anuraga, between a girl who is bold in the company of others but denies herself to the beloved, looking at him only when he is not aware of it. It is a poem about modesty and desire.” Soma concluded, blushing.

Parvati, from the window, saw the young man get up and go towards the path of return. The old woman followed him and when they were out of the village, she stopped him.

“Why do you come to hear from my daughter every day? Even when she wasn't out, you were on the corner of the house waiting. Who are you?”

“My name is Namdew, I am from Anandapur. Rumors have reached my village of her daughter's skill, of her talent for poetry; and these praises are unable to describe the rasa* that comes from hearing her voice. If it were possible, I would like the divine Ananta* with me so that time would not be so fleeting. Forgive me, I have to go back to the village, the road is long,” Namdew said. “I'll be back tomorrow if it's not a problem.”

Parvati nodded and took leave of the boy.

In the evening, after dinner, the mother appeared at the door of Soma's room who was on the point of falling asleep.

“Yes, maa?”

“Nothing, my daughter,” she replied with a sweet smile.

“I just wanted to tell you that today you have recited some wonderful verses for me too who am ignorant.”

Soma smiled and rested her head on the pillow, looking out the window at the moon.

Gaudi Ragini: “Woman with flowers and peacocks”. (Sheet, Mewar, late 17th century)

 

The next day Soma pointed out to her father that the branches of the trees were close to touching. The elder nodded – he was happy.

Soma wore a white sari with gold edges. Before sitting down, she looked out of the corner of her eye at the young stranger sitting on the bench. Parvati was sitting on the ground in front of the door of the house with the khal batta.

Without a word of warning, Soma's voice sang:

    “The more the wayfarer, with his eyes up
    towards her, the fingers spread slowly he drinks,
    so much the water-carrier makes
    even thinner is the already thin thread of water.”

 

The father sitting on the ground in front of the daughter looked at her confusedly: “Jhia, these lines are obscure.”

Soma, still with her hand to hide her face towards the ground, said.

“This poem by Hala is titled ‘At the fountain,’ and with a few lines describes the sudden love between an unknown traveler who stops to drink at a fountain, where a woman helps him by pouring water with her hands to those of the man. When the stranger turns his gaze to her face, love explodes and opens the hands to both of them – the water becomes thin between the open fingers as their love swells their hearts.”

Parvati went into the house and then went out with the kalash for water.

“Please, my daughter, go and get water from the river”.

Meanwhile, the boy disappeared from their sight without Soma noticing.

“Now, maa?” Soma asked in amazement.

“Go,” replied her mother, “hurry up, before sunset.”

Soma covered the face by wrapping her neck with one side of the veil, looked at her father, and walked towards the river.

Her heart throbbed like a tabla and the hands were sweaty. It was the first time she had walked that path after years and it was impossible to forget the place that was the source of her unhappiness.

As she walked, she peered constantly left and right.

When she reached the river bank she sat down on a stone and began to fill the kalash with flowing water.

 

“Girl holding a gazelle on a leash”. (Painted by 'Ali Ja'far, Bijapur, 1620-1630)

She heard a rustle behind her and stood up screaming.

Before her was the unknown young man.

“No, don't be afraid. Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.” He said in a trembling voice, reading the terror in the girl's eyes.

Soma lifted the veil to cover half of her face, which she tucked to the side as was her habit.

“Who are you? Why are you here? What do you want from me?”

“My name is Namdew and I come from the village of Anandapur. Every day I travel over ten kilometers to listen to you recite poetry.”

Soma calmed down but with the heart still hitting her chest violently.

“Every day? From so far away?” She asked in a thin voice.

The young man nodded vigorously.

“Yes, it's far away, I know, but I've never heard anything so wonderful in my life.”

“You will be thirsty...,” Soma replied.

“When I come to you, I also forget about hunger and thirst,” Namdew replied smiling, after taking courage, with a dark and delicate face.

Soma placed the earthenware jug on the ground and went towards the riverbank, dipped her cupped hands in it, and, still with her face covered, told the boy to come closer. Namdew crouched at Soma's feet and raised his face to her with his hands closed ready to receive the water.

She slowly dropped the fresh and sweet nectar of the river on the palms of the boy's hands while he sucked every drop with his lips.

He then looked into her eyes and exclaimed smiling, “We look like the couple from the poem you recited today.”

Soma froze and turned her back to Namdew. He wiped his lips and walked over to her.

“I'm sorry,” he said, trying to look over the veil that hid her face.

Then his voice dropped in pitch, became deep and warm, “Please, can I see your face?”

Soma trembled from her feet to the top of her hair, tears already streaming down her face.

“Why? Do you want to make fun of me?” She said with her lips tight and vibrant with anger and shame.

“For nothing in the world. Please, you don't have to fear.”

Soma with a burst of pride stared straight into his eyes, “You will not like what you will see: my face is not like my voice.”

Namdew took the edges of the veil between his fingers and slowly slipped it, letting it fall on Soma's shoulders.

The boy was entranced by the size of her eyes as dark as the night, her thin nose with the little silver nakchhabi*, her full lips, her skin like dark silk to meet the scars that ripple so much beauty.

With a faint voice through tears, Soma turned her face to the side.

“Here, now you've seen what a horrible girl you love to come and listen to every day, traveling miles. For sure you won't come back tomorrow,” Soma said, trembling all over with embarrassment and sadness.

He caressed her face, turning it towards his gaze.

“Varuna and Mitra* would also come to extinguish tomorrow, I would just like to exhale my last breath sitting on that bench, listening to your voice,” Namdew whispered with a smile.

Soma cried for the first time in her life not bitter tears.

 

© Anderlini, Gia

The next day Namdew spoke to Soma's father and mother who was in her room, sitting on the bed while she stroked the cover of her poetry books.

The father said that Namdew had been sent by the gods and that he would find the dowry for his daughter, even if he had to sell the whole house.

The boy's family was in good condition, experienced traders, so they only settled with cattle.

The wedding day was a great celebration in the village of Tarimul, it lasted for three days.

At the end of the first day, in the evening, before Soma had to go with her husband to his house in his village, she was seized by an excruciating sadness.

She kept crying in her red sari – the bracelets and necklaces made her look like a princess.

Namdew had asked her not to cover the face and that from that moment there would be no need for it.

Soma hugged her mother very tightly. “You must not be sad, my daughter, even if you go away. Your destiny is fulfilled. You will never have to suffer again.”

She told her as she stroked her face with both hands. “Your husband is a good man who sees beyond the surface.”

Then she stroked her forehead with the index finger of the right hand and touched the red bindu* in the middle of her hairline.

Then she came to her face and whispered. “It was fate that you would marry one day: you know that bindu is the name of the moon, like the meaning of your name.”

Soma smiled and hugged her.  Before leaving with her husband, she went to greet her elderly father.

“Bapa, always stay healthy and don't worry about me,” she told him with tears in her eyes.

Then he grabbed her hand and dragged her with him.

“Before you go, you have to see something,” he told her as they walked around the house in the yard.

“Look...,” the old man exclaimed pointing to the two trees of which only the golden outline painted by the moonlight could be seen.

By now they had grown tall and sturdy, bent in an arc towards each other and the branches intertwined in the center.

Then he turned to her daughter and said in a hoarse voice.

“This is my poem for you, my daughter. Now you can go. Forget the wounds of the past and live peacefully. We will always be there for you.  May you be the mother of a hundred children.”

 

“Women looking out the windows of a building”. (Painting, Kishangarh, 18th century)

* Payal is the anklets used by women in India.
* Rasa is a complex term: in Indian aesthetics, it is used to refer to the emotional experience in dramatic art and poetry. Nine rasas are usually listed: erotic love, laughter, compassion, anger, irritation, heroism, fear, wonder, and tranquility.
* Ananta, the name of the serpent (Sesa) on which Visnu rests; symbolizes infinite time.* Small nose ring.
* Varuna is the one who rules the night and Mitra the day.
* Bindu is the red mark in the center of a Hindu woman's forehead that indicates her status as a married woman.

POST SCRIPTUM


It was not easy to write this story because, like Burma, I have never been to India. But it's certainly one of the imaginary places that I love most and of which I have read and seen a lot.

The inspiration came from Ugo Panella's touching and terrible photographic reportage on acid-scarred women in Bangladesh. I had wanted to use those photographs for a long time and this gave me the impetus for the story of Soma, because like her so many they are victims in both Bangladesh and India. The photographs are almost always the first inspiration, as is the magnificent photograph of Raghu Rai taken in Rajasthan: the standing woman absorbed in her thoughts.

Never as in this case have I built the story with the help of images, and indeed it was also my personal homage to all those who have told about India, from Luigi Primoli who was among the first Italians to visit and describe the India in the early twentieth century up to the incredible diary of Edmondo Anderlini and Luigi Gia, two Italian soldiers taken prisoner by the British during the Second World War and taken to prison camps in India in 1941, from which they managed to escape to stay in this immense country by describing the language, uses and documenting with simple but loving photographs, up to the Master Raghu Rai who is the great singer of India.

There have been many books that have helped me, especially relating to Hinduism and Indian art, for which I have started a study that has lasted for over two years.

So, I wanted this story to be my heartfelt homage to India and its people, trying to write it in a different style than usual, inspired by Indian classical poems or ancient novels: from the Tamil “Shilappadikaran” of Prince Ilango Adigal, to the “Courtesan Umrao jan Ada”, one of the first Indian novels written in hurdu by Mirza Muhammad Hadi Ruswa.

Impossible to cite all the books used as inspiration but I certainly cannot fail to mention these:

Ugo Panella: “The negated faces – Reportage from Bangladesh” (Federico Motta Editore, 2000)
Klaus K. Klostermaier: “Little Encyclopedia of Hinduism” (Arkeios Editions, 2001)
“Treasures of Indian classical lyric” (Strenna UTET 1994) Edmondo Anderlini - Luigi Gia: “In India – About India” (Cappelli Editore, 1978)
“The instant rediscovered – Luigi Primoli photographer in India, 1905-1906” (De Luca Editori d'Arte, 2004)
Diego Manzi: “Enchantment – The divinities of India” (Le Lettere, 2019)
Raghu Rai: “India” (IdeaLibri, 2001)
Nathaniel Gaskell - Diva Gujral: “Photography in India – A visual History from the 1850s to the Present” (Prestel, 2018)

Special thanks to “aunty” Sumita for helping me with some information and terminology.

Italian version