The Shut Door And The Goddess

Exhausted from banging on the door that was shut so tight that not even a sliver of sound could get through, she ran, helter-skelter, screaming and shouting into the empty night sky, which watched her with stony eyes, bereft of the moon and even the stars. And then she stopped running and screaming and shouting, went back to the door, still shut, and stuck herself to it, with slathers of sticky glue. Surely the shut door would respond now, she thought. But it didn’t. It stayed shut, resolutely. So, she thought she would use a method that everybody swore by, beseech the great Gods with prayer. She didn't know how to pray, but she looked for a God to try it out anyway. She found a Goddess, instead.

There she stood, beauteous and proud, astride on her fearsome beast, her spear plunged deep in the heart of a snarling demon. And there grew shards of hope in her heart. Surely such a powerful Goddess would intercede on her behalf with the shut door and prevail upon it to open. A little. Just a crack would do.  But how did one pray to such a powerful Goddess, she wondered. Would she have the time for an insignificant nonentity like her? It didn’t seem possible. So she decided to tell the Goddess a story instead. Maybe the Goddess would think they were prayers if she mumbled her story inaudibly, she thought. But the Goddess seemed deaf, her face pasted steadfastly with the expression of victory painted on it.

The next day, the sun didn't arrive. And the day was grey and dreadful quiet. And the leaves in the trees were silent, for even the breeze was gone somewhere. At around mid-morning, or was it mid-day, or had it been some time at midnight – she had forgotten the precise time, it wasn’t particularly important anyway – she extracted the knife she had hidden somewhere in her heart and prized herself apart from the shut door with its sharp blade. Yes it hurt awfully and it bled profusely and she wondered if she would survive this assault she had inflicted on herself. But the ache in her heart had dulled a little. And the screams and shouts subsided a little.

And the Goddess smiled her stony smile, and said, yes, it was a sad story, but sorry, there were other, more serious matters in the world she had to attend to… there were so many demons to slay… there were floods, and poverty, and people were dying of sickness and destitution.. can’t you see? And so she tied sterile bandages on her bleeding wounds and stopped mumbling her sad story, while people carried the Goddess on their shoulders to the ocean, chanting their practiced prayers, which she accepted with grace and benevolence and compassion. And even as she drowned and dissolved in the waves, her hair in complete disarray, she said to her, look, even Goddesses must perish sometimes.

-by Rita Putatunda