MEHRU, THE SPIRIT KEEPER OF FATHIMA
Today is my final day in Ibbbagamuwa. As I prepare to proceed to the hills I am thankful to this lovely quaint studio space with sweeping views, and its caring and gracious hosts. I had comfort, peace and serenity - a smooth start to my work.
No words will do justice to the beauty of this area and I hold dear, the chance of travelling its network of roads and tracks to meet some amazing people and visit breathtaking sites, some steeped in history. I listened and learned. I questioned and contemplated. I met people, and some are now friends.
There are unfinished stories and conversations. They may never be written but lodged in my being. One in particular cannot be cast aside or said on a later date on a different land. The final part needs to be told before I leave.
I cannot with good conscience, lay aside a silent rolled up memory dictated by scribbled notes without the feel and presence of it on this very land it happened.
In my own way I lay her to rest in her Home.
This is Mehru’s Story, continuation of The Spirit Keeper of Fathima, written this night before I leave.
* * * * * *
The cows Have to be around, he thinks despairingly.
Already the sun is edging towards the West, the late afternoon heat or Raassige Auwa is harsh on his skin. Not a leaf moves in the forest and the tangled undergrowth beneath tall wild trees trap the air thick and warm. Finding a comfortable looking flat surface under a Beli tree he pauses to rest as his limbs grow heavy and his mind lethargic, and the dream happens.
Clearing the area mentioned in the dream of the Lady, his enthusiasm does not dissipate despite the labouring work. There is some force driving him and he is certain he will find the sign.
The sturdy pole nudges the vines away from his path and he slashes the undergrowth, moving in widening circles.
As the heavy stick hits a hard surface camouflaged by the thick bush he hears the cows. And his heart leaps.
Mizan or Meezan is the word used for divine guidance that lets humans weigh the propriety and justice of one's deeds.
This is that place.
Even if it is the most bizarre thing ever attempted in his life, he does not question the dream, and returns to light a lamp with water, just as he is instructed, as an offering to Fathima for finding the cows.
When the flame holds and continues to flicker steadily in the water that is feeding it through the cloth wick, his heart thuds and he cannot speak.
He shades the flame from possible wind and rain with a makeshift cover and leaves glancing back continuously, with the resolve he will return.
…and when her spirit begins to be alive through him, manifesting and guiding him to heal, he stays, never leaving.
* * * * *
Mehru embodies Fathima’s spirit. She falls into a trance and chants in a language she does not understand nor control.
She heals those who come to her, even if Fathima had no place of rest and could never heal from the pain of the death of her only child.
Nobody knows where or how she died but only where her spirit came alive.
But I have a hunch. She was looked after in the forest by her sister. I suggest this to Mehru, and her eyes widen; she has told me of her, as she dreams of a strong feisty woman known to her as Fathima’s Sister, often.
This is Mehru’s fate, coming down 5 generations. Starting from her Great great grandmother’s father on that fateful day in the forest.
Passed down to the Chosen One who speaks the strange tongue and dreams of the Yakkada Doli (Yonaka Queen) and King Wathhimi, it is a role she took on at 45 years of age, from her mother, with trepidation mixed with honour and respect.
It is a great responsibility and she has dedicated the rest of her life to keeping Fathima’s spirit alive and healing the pain of others.
When she touches my hand and speaks to me it is soothingly cold, in this dusty heat.
Those with children, those without children, those sick, trickle by daily to be blessed.
With sad eyes she tells me of the man from Rupavahini who came to film the place years back, and rudely told her that the queen was a very bad woman.
“How can she be bad when she has healed hearts and bodies?” she asks. I nod.
The crassness of my people hits me in the stomach and my pain is as intense as her sadness.
On my first visit, when I asked permission to photograph or record her, Mehru refused.
I respected her wishes and in subsequent meetings never brought it up.
My thinking was, she will bring it up, if she is ready.
One day, to my questions about her speaking in a strange language, she suddenly says
“Some people came from another country, and they understood me. They recorded it.”
“From where?” I am excited.
“Arabia….”
I list the names of countries in the Middle East, and I am desperate for the recording.
She thinks hard and walks to her house in the compound. She comes back and declares “Iran”
My hands are cold too now.
Fathima is from the Khorazan area, a historical region known as the Land of the Sun in Persia, now Iran.
King Wathhimi’s full name is Khorazan Mohammed Ismail Bhuvenakabahu.
That day when I left, she touched my shoulder and invited me for the Muharam/raising of the flag, followed by the festival meal 10 days after. I know this invitation is special and I am greatly honoured to be asked by her.
But I leave soon and will not be there for the meal.
* * * * * *
Kasun is over One hour late and I am livid!
It is dark and I have no idea how to get there even with Google Maps. No other trustworthy trishaw is available either and they won’t be able to find it anyway.
Explaining his last hire was a man transporting glass and how he had to drive very slowly, Kasun flies.
Of course we run out of gas and detour to a Petrol Station, and I am trying not to burst a vein.
* * * * * *
There are few people scattered, and the ritual is over. I can barely see the flag in the dark.
I am told Mehru is resting inside her home.
As I turn to go, I feel her presence behind me. She looks drained and very tired, but her smile is wide for me.
We speak a bit and I don’t want to take her time as those who are sitting around again seem to want to speak to her, now that she has stepped out... We say our final goodbyes and she knows I leave in two days.
For the First time, she asks for my number. I write it for her from a page torn from my notebook.
She does not know how to operate a mobile phone, but she knows there is a copy of the video in this country. She will try her best. She wants me to see it.
I hold her hands together with both mine and that is our hug. I have a lump in my throat as she blesses me.
When I turn to walk away, she calls me back.
Would I like a photograph with her?
* * * * * * * *
I cannot decipher what that moment was for me or what significance or impact the story I have written has in terms of my work, myself and in the grand scheme of things.
This will disappear just as Fathima did. Just like the systematic erasure of Wathhimi's existence.
But I am crying now as I type this.
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