It’s a nice typical Goa house, high night, full moon. In this particular time of the year, the monsoon, rainy season, the parties are organized mostly in the houses, and not only for the eventuality of the rains, but mostly for that of the police who could come in the public places more easily now when it’s difficult to find so many tourists to squeeze. Anyway it is not raining, the night is nice, quiet, we are here the few of us staying during monsoon and the party has a touch of familiar, intimate, nothing of titanic; even if the moon outside is titanic, as usual.
Nearly everybody is outside, in the huge garden where is the DJ set and they dance, smoke, laugh and smile, really a rare atmosphere of friendship and affection tonight. I wander inside the house in the twilight, dark warm welcoming, and suddenly I stop and sit on a chair in a corner, from where I can watch the entrance and another door to the inner part of the house; the room is empty, no furniture, as usual in India, only the necessary utilities but mostly empty space, space where the heart breathes freely not overwhelmed by memories, worries, needs. The space of India, space that when empty expands the time, huge moment between one phase and the other of the breath, vibrating wait without nothing to expect if not the joy of the explosion of life, cosmic breath, or the implosion of death.
I do not know why I sit down, but surely once seated I start to drop water from my hair; long dreadlocks that in India are called Jata and identify the Sadhus, those on the spiritual path. The dreadlocks are coming by themselves, I do not make them up, I do not let anybody make like now usually happens in the West, even I cut them two times leaving my head completely bald, and always they are coming back by themselves, helped by the life in the jungle, the mountains, the deserts, washing me always but never using a comb, without control over my life, substance and appearance one single free thing. And from my hair water drops, I should be sweating, but it is already quiet a long time I do not dance and wander around the house, stealthily in the shadow, fresh, no reason to sweat at all… however the points of my dreadlocks are continuously trickling. I let them do, I do not squeeze them, I do not worry, I live in silence the moment in which I feel so good, suspended in a magic world, riding the breath of the breeze able to bring me here, and here there is Him, Shiva, the God leading my steps, I am quiet and the force to accept my destiny is coming from the silence, the awe.
The water goes on flowing, the dripping from my hair is so abundant and continuous to be properly called a flow. From the door opening to the inner part of the house Carma, my Basque friend, walks in and stops to watches, and she sits on a chair and stays gazing at me for a very long time, in silence.
I stay motionless, not moving a single finger, not wanting to disturb the miracle happening, it is so sweet this kiss of the running Water, that must be creating on the top of the head where I use sometimes to tie my hair in a knot rightly called the Ganga, in Hindu languages the Ganges, the holy river, that gush out just from this point that we call the Fontanel.
So many years are passed by, and in my art and healing work since sometimes I am focused on Water, and one day looking for an image of Shiva in which it is possible to see the Ganges flowing from the Fontanel as he is usually represented, I step in a painting where one can see that Shiva is inundated by Ganga Devi, the spiritual Ganges coming down from Infinity that on the head of Siva, the yogi, it is transformed in a cascade of physical Water, in front of the eyes of a devotee.