THE VIRGIN GODDESS AND THE BLACK POTATOES: REFLECTIONS ON FEMININE ARCHETYPES By Linda Craven - Illustrations by Marly Stone _LT WAS IN THE MAGICAL KINGDOM OF NEPAL THAT I CAUGHT A GLIMPSE OF HER, THE KUMARI, A LIVING VIRGIN GODDESS. A ROSY CHILD IN BRILLIANT CLOTHING, DARK EYES, FLASHES OF GOLD AND JEWELS, SHE MADE THE OBLIGATORY BRIEF APPEARANCE IN THE TINY WINDOW ON THE TOP FLOOR OF THE MEDIEVAL-STYLE COURTYARD. “NO PHOTOS, PLEASE,” THE GUARD WARNED. AND SHE WAS GONE. This contemporary virgin goddess carries on a centuries-old tradition that appears, in slightly different forms, in most of the world’s religions—as the virgin Mary, the Goddess of Mercy, the mother of Krishna.. . . These traditions are a way of elevating and revering woman as virgin, symbolic of her purity and goodness, her reproductive capacity, her power of withholding or bestowing love, her beauty, her womanness. The Nepalese Kumari resides in a courtyard in Kathmandu where the virgin goddess, in a youthful, human form, has been making her tantalizingly brief appearances for hundreds perhaps thousands of years. The girl is chosen by a council of religious leaders for her perfections, 32 of them ranging from long toes to eyelashes like a cow’s and a small delicate tongue. Likely candidates are placed in a dark room, surrounded by the severed heads from sacrificial animals and subjected to frightening noises. The girl who neither cries nor protests is recognized as the true goddess. Festooned with elaborate „ costuming and make up, she is carried through the streets by adoring worshipers, then cloistered in the tower where she will remain, except for a few ceremonial occasions, until her first blood flows. When menstruation begins, signaling her readiness for marriage and thus the end of her virgin status, a new goddess will be chosen. The Kumari is not the only living archetype of femininity. A vast range includes Mother Theresa, Winnie Mandela, Marilyn Monroe, and her most recent reflection, the rock star, Madonna. I encountered a more startling vision of womanhood as I left Nepal via India. They were in the Delhi airport, five of them, inscrutable black blimps that vaguely resembled human form. The women, or what I could only assume were women, were trailing along behind three robed men. The five were garbed heavily in billowy black gowns, black gloves, black socks and shoes, and black veils— not just the usual head cover and mask across lower face. These women had an additional translucent covering that shrouded their entire heads, faces, eyes and all. “ How can they see!” my teenage daughter exclaimed. The women were led to a relatively isolated spot and left while the men proceeded to the airline counter. The veiled figures faced the wall and squatted, in the typical Asian style, to wait until they were signaled again to follow the men. “They might as well be potatoes!” my indignant daughter again expostulated. And so, for the remainder of the trip, we humorously, and not so humorously, referred to them as the black potatoes. When food was required during the seven-hour delay in the airport, one of the men brought a plate of curry puffs and tea and left them beside the black figures, one of whom produced a gloved hand from the folds of cloth and passed the plate around. Trying not to stare, we caught glimpses of them lifting the veils out to slip morsels in. Never was a cheek exposed, a chin, a finger. Later they were escorted by one of the men to the ladies room. I happened to be there when one of them walked up to the wash basins. “ Hello, how are you?” I ventured, having heard them speaking English. “Are you going to Malaysia?” Nothing. “We live there,” I added, “ in Shah Alam.” She turned her back to me facing the wall. Unfriendly! I thought, until I tried to see myself through her eyes. I must have appeared grossly obscene to her in slacks which revealed my human shape and with so much skin showing, my face and hands. Aboard the plane there was yet another startling scene. All the veiled women managed to obtain seats together save one. One of the robed men was seated across the aisle from me with this lone black figure who must have been one of his wives. With gloved hands, she attached a scarf from the seat back in front of her to her own cushion creating a partition between herself and her husband. Then she pressed herself against the cabin window, as isolated from him as possible. I could only conclude it must be considered inappropriate for a woman to be in close proximity with a man, even her husband, in public. Is it only in the darkness of night, then, that physical contact occurs? As darkness descended over the skies of the Indian Ocean, all the humor I had initially seen in this situation drained away, and a new realization dawned— these specters in black represent another age-old view of women, that of sinful seductress, of Eve tempting Adam with her apple, of the witch with her powerful potions, of the evils of the flesh, the fall from Grace. According to this view, a woman must be contained and controlled. She must be protected from her own evil impulses. She must be confined and ruled as the lower animals are ruled. And like the domestic animals, she then becomes property. Woman as Dependent Virgin Goddess. Black Potatoes. Powerful images, pregnant with symbolism. What do these images mean for modern-day women? For humankind? There are similarities between the two images. In both cases, the female is seen as dependent. The girl goddess is dependent on those who cloistered her. The black-garbed women depend on their men for food and shelter; they wait to be told where to squat, what to eat, when to move. Clinton St. Quarterly—Summer, 1988 15
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