Goddess

Dear Reader,

This is a story about an encounter that felt both powerful and mysterious, evoking the kind of feeling you get when you stand in front of the ocean at night. I shared it on the newsletter sometime last year, but there are many more readers now and I would love to hear what you make of it. Whether you are reading it for the first time or the second, please share what it brings up for you.

---

We were in the back room of an old art shop in a small city in southern India. The room was crowded, with wood, metal, and stone sculptures, and stacks of glass-fronted paintings leaning against the walls. We walked carefully through the makeshift aisle, pausing occasionally to admire. This visit was a momentary respite grabbed in the middle of a turbulent life situation- we had come here to be with art, to look at it, and to allow its gentle hands to apply balm to our souls. 

We both spotted the painting at the same moment. The glass in the dark wooden frame was dusty, but we could see the dull gold gleam against the old red. Her eyes looked back at us in a way I don’t have the right words for. Serene. Powerful. It was that, but also beyond words. Some vast, incomprehensible mystery peered out at us from those eyes, one we could only register with the quickening of our breath and racing heartbeat. 

But, like I said, it was a quick interlude of a visit in the middle of overwhelm.

On the way home, we spoke at the same time. 

“Maybe next time... we can see...

“Maybe.” Pause. “If she’s still there…”

We went back to the art shop some months later. The turbulence in our lives hadn't yet completely abated, though there were some glimmers of hope and clarity. 

We went into the same back room. We looked through the stacks leaning against the wall, but we couldn't find the painting. We were disappointed even as we knew it was too much to expect. 

I was walking out of the back room when I heard my name. 

“Look, under the table… it’s her.”

It was her, a golden Goddess silhouetted against an old red.

The next hour was a blur of conversation and activity. Someone, a salesperson, slid the painting from under the table. There was gentle teasing about young people and their love for old things. Someone else found a small crack in the dusty glass of the frame. The shop owner suggested a thorough cleaning, glass replacement, and wood polishing. He knew a small sister shop nearby that could take care of it. The painting would need careful packing for safe delivery. They would deliver it home to us when it was ready, probably by the end of the day. They urged us not to wait. They would take care of everything, they reiterated. Don’t worry, they said kindly. We were worried. The painting had become the repository of all our hopes. 

We went home reluctantly, and we waited. The day felt incredibly long. There was a sense of excitement, but also trepidation and disbelief. Was this really happening?Would it happen? 

Later in the evening, the store owner called to verify our address. I imagined them carefully placing the wrapped painting in the delivery truck or a van.

We took turns pacing to the gate outside the house, but there was no sign of anyone. We were at dinner when the phone rang. It was the delivery team. They wanted to make sure they were outside the right house. We ran and threw open the door of the house and the outside gate. 

A motorcycle stood outside, its engine still running loudly. There were two men. One of them we recognized as the salesperson. We didn't know who the other man was because the large, carefully wrapped painting he held in front of him blocked his face. Apparently, there was no delivery van. The salesperson had volunteered to deliver it because he lived nearby. Someone else had accompanied him to help.  

Something about the sight of the painting's insistent arrival on a motorcycle made the situation feel surreal. As we moved it into the house, unwrapped the packaging, and looked into those eyes again, there was a clear feeling of being in the grip of some unfathomable mystery. Who had chosen whom? I imagined the painting quietly biding its time under the table. I imagined its ride through the busy evening traffic, perched precariously on a wobbly motorcycle. I imagined the stops and starts of the traffic lights, the sharp turns at the corners, and the painting steadily, regally, making its aloof way to a destination of its choice.  There was something at once imperious and frightening, and magnificent and urgent about that.

Reader, I would love to know what you thought about this story. Did you feel the mystery too?

Best,

Priya

---

---