The Next Bhulla

Bhulla Theresa is dying. For tens of years she has been the heart of our village. 

Our village is ruled by men, as are all villages. But it is Bhulla Theresa who tells the men what to do, what to think, what to say. It is Bhulla Theresa who advises on where game can be caught, where fruits can be found, though men ultimately decide if they should follow this advice. Bhulla Theresa is crafty though. Bhulla Theresa will tell men where to go to catch a large antelope, or if they think best to go elsewhere, but there’s only a wild boar and her piglets to be had. She says it in such a way that the men will think that the antelope is the preferred prey, whereas Bhulla Theresa knows the antelope is old and tough, while a couple of piglets would be juicy and tender, if only the hunters can get past the mother.

Bhulla Theresa drank from the well of seeing when she was a young woman. Bhulla Theresa was chosen by the gods.

Because of Bhulla Theresa, we have peace in our village. No man can try to take sole control because of Bhulla Theresa. No man can deceive his woman because of Bhulla Theresa. Because Bhulla Theresa knows all. She sees what men think, she sees the future, and she advises what should be done. Bhulla Theresa says who should marry who, who would be the best match, even though that is not what the heart thinks it desires. And because Bhulla Theresa knows the future. She sees what matches will last, she sees what matches will produce children who are born strong, healthy, and ultimately useful.

We learn, all of us, to take our instructions from Bhulla Theresa. And even though there might be a boy we like, we know better than to flirt, to keep secret trysts with such boys. Because there are no secrets. Bhulla Theresa will know, and most realise that their best interests are to follow her advice.

In our youth we all take our turns to serve Bhulla Theresa. The young men keep her home maintained, they tend her garden, they bring her food from their hunting and foraging trips; Bhulla Theresa always has a share in everything brought to the village. The girls cook for her, clean for her. And in return, all the young people know that when time is right, Bhulla Theresa will choose them a suitable mate. If they do well, they may be rewarded when an elder or a healer has served their time, and needs to be replaced.

And now that Bhulla Theresa is ill, we women care for her, wiping her brow, feeding her soup, preparing herbs to make her more comfortable. We all take turns to do what we can, what we are told we should do.

But the healers say there will be no preparation of herbs for a cure. Bhulla Theresa is beyond a cure. Bhulla Theresa is, after all, an ordinary woman. She has lived many decades, but it is her time. She is an ordinary woman with an extra-ordinary gift.

Before Bhulla Theresa, there was another Bhulla, another who served our village well. When it was her time, three girls were chosen to drink from the well of seeing. Two died, but it was Theresa who lived, who gained the full gift of seeing from that drink. And since that day she has seen what is best for the village. Soon Bhulla Theresa will need to choose three women to drink from the well of seeing to see who has what it takes to be the next Bhulla. Part of me wonders why two have to die, but I’m sure the Bhulla will know.

There comes the day when she calls the three chief elders into her home, when she tells which three have been chosen. The three will be young unmarried women. After all, a Bhulla must give herself to everyone, not just one man. The elders come from the house where the Bhulla lies and the village waits for the three names.

They call for Anya. It puzzles me why they call for Anya. Even though she does not say anything, I can sense that Anya wants the power, that she wants to be the Bhulla. But there is not the quietness or serenity I think of when I think about the Bhulla. Perhaps that is as it should be. Surely the position should go to someone who has ambition. Anya looks pleased, she looks proud. Her eyes shine with triumph at being chosen. Friends and family congratulate her.

There is quiet as the elders call the second name. They call for Jesame. It puzzles me that they call for Jesame, more so than Anya. Although she does not say anything, I know that a young man, Bernad, seeks out Jesame, that if she were allowed, she would dance to his tune. But perhaps it is a way to get her away from the influence of Bernad. Because if she were Bhulla, she would control him. Except I do not think Bernad would allow that. I notice that Jesame looks scared. This after all is a great triumph, but there are dangerous paths to be trod. Does she have the strength? I notice that Bernad stands at the back, nodding silently to himself. He thinks that with Jesame as the Bhulla, he would rule all. He does not understand how Bhulla works. Bhulla says what Bhulla sees. There is no deciding, certainly not by a man.

The elders call for quiet as they call the third name. They call for Ursull. But that is my name. Why would Bhulla Theresa name me? But my name is spoken, so I turn to my family, bow to them in accordance to the custom, in respect and thanks for the life that they have given me, and they hug me and give me their blessing. Then I turn with a heavy but determined heart, knowing this might be the last time I see them, and I go to join Anya and Jesame.

We are taken away and dressed in white ceremonial robes, robes that I have helped stitch over the past few weeks in readiness for this. For two of us, these will be our funeral shrouds, and we will be buried in full honours. When we are ready, we go to the centre of our village. I know that what will come will be painful, for it is told. I know I may die from what I am about to ingest. But it is my fate, and I must endure.

Three litters, strewn with fresh rushes, await us. Each of us is given a cup, and the elders bring out a ewer which contains the water of seeing. There is a hush among the crowd as prayers are said over the water.  We each come forward to have our cups filled, and we each take our cups back to the litters and take out seats.

I notice that Anya looks triumphant, as if she is ready for Jesame and I to die so that she can take charge. I notice Jesame, how the hand holding her cup trembles, at the fear and the doubt in her mind.

But I must not focus on them; I must focus on my own cup. I look at the fluid within my cup. It is dark, swirling, it shows the whole village, the whole of the world. It shows the universe in its depths. It is unlike any drink I have seen before.

At last we are told to drink. Anya cannot wait. She has not looked into the cup, but quickly brings the cup to her lips and drains it of its contents, some pouring down the side of her mouth in her haste. Jesame hesitantly brings the cup to her lips, sips, hesitates, then forces herself to drink the rest, gagging as she does so. I myself say a prayer and bring the cup to my lips where I drink it slowly and surely as if it were nectar to be savoured, breathing as calmly as I can while I do so. I think of Bhulla Theresa, lying now in her house. She will know which two will fail, which will succeed. So even though the fluid is bitter and oily, even though it clings to my mouth, even though it burns on its way down to my stomach, I keep my lips firmly on the rim and continue to drink steadily until every last drop is gone. And when I take the cup away, I lick my lips to make sure nothing is missed.

When we are done, we lie back on our beds. Whatever will be will be. One will become the Bhulla, the other two will die.

I search my soul, thinking of my family, my village. Thinking of Bhulla Theresa. I hear Anya cry out, but I try to remain calm. As she continues to cry out, I hear Jesame scream with pain, but I try to remain resolute. Then the pain hits me, but I know it is something that I must endure. I don’t know if I cry out or not, but I know I squirm on my litter as the pain in my gut pulls me first one way, then the next. I twist from side to side, trying to dodge the pain, failing at each attempt. And as I feel myself sinking, I feel myself pulling away from the pain. The pain is not in my head, it is in my stomach. If I retreat to my head, I will leave the pain behind, and what will be will be. And as I retreat into my mind, I stop my writhing. The pain remains, but I am not there with it.

I think of my childhood, of how I would look at the Bhulla as she sat in her green robes in front of her house. I think of the lessons we learned in school, of how we learned how to supress our wants and desires, of how we learned that the Bhulla showed the way to everything. I looked at a young woman serving the Bhulla, at a young man. I looked at how they faced the Bhulla and were told they could join. My parents. The look of surprise on my father’s face, the shyness of my mother as he gently took her hand and they left. And I watched back as Bhulla Theresa got younger and younger, as she advised the elders back through time. And as I watched, I realised the Bhulla was no longer Bhulla Theresa, that it was another Bhulla, Bhulla Marinas, and a young Theresa brought her food, served her as we had served Bhulla Theresa. And it got faster and faster, going back through time. Marinas was serving Bhulla Emalia, Emalia was serving Bhulla Hiriton. And on and on it goes. I see far back, to the dawn of time, to the formation of our world, to the birth of our sun. The pain continues, but the pain is far away in the future, and I am back at the beginning. And as the sun is unborn, there is nothingness.

When I wake, it is to find that I am within Bhulla Theresa’s house. I too am dressed in green. It seems that I am to be the new Bhulla. Bhulla Theresa is still alive, but she is fading. I go and sit with her as the others leave us.

“You knew,” she said. “You saw why the other two were chosen.”

“Yes,” I answered, for of course I saw. A Bhulla could not be too ambitious, a Bhulla could not be held in the sway of others. I saw why they had been chosen to fail. And I had been chosen to succeed because I could see the reason why those two must fail, even without the water from the well of seeing.

And so I sit with Bhulla Theresa while she lives through her last days. Once she has gone, there will be a celebration of her life, of my succession. Once things have settled down, I will begin to tell the elders how to rule. I will begin to advise who should be paired with who. I will never take a lover, never bear a child myself. But already I see that Conin, a strong young man, though not the handsomest, would make a good match for my friend Dasia. They will have strong children, strong grandchildren, and a great-granddaughter who could be the next Bhulla.