INSERT CARLITA’S EARLY INDOCTRINATION INTO BELIEVING IN GHOSTS AND SUCH FROM PLAYING WITH HER MOM’S OUIJA BOARD
After binging on another season of an idiotic television series not worth mentioning, Carlita began to nod off in her purple corduroy upholstered loveseat. The chin-length, wavy brown hair she had tucked behind her ear slowly crept forward, falling in front of her eyes, casting a veil. As she hovered between wakefulness and sleep, Carlita thought she heard dulcet tones whisper in her ear: “How shall I go on?”
“What’s wrong,” wondered Carlita. As a believer in ghosts and the afterlife, she wanted to help what sounded like a desperately lost soul.
“What will I do,” the wispy voice asked, “without my loved one whom I treasured so?”
Carlita was stopped cold by the ghost’s query. Not three weeks before, her beloved husband, John, had died in a terrible car crash. A nasty drunk driver had T-boned him in the intersection two blocks from their apartment. John had left work early, wanting to surprise Carlita hours before her big interview. As she made her way to the scene, she spied multicolored rose petals littering the blacktop, giving off her favorite scent. Now the pungent aroma made her gag on sorrow.
“Oh, the unfairness of it all,” lamented the sorrowful voice.
“Were you at the crash?” Carlita straightened up in her chair. “Are you a soul lost in transition? John, is that you? Do you know how much I—”
“To never kiss again,” interrupted the soft yet persistent whisperer, “to never feel the closeness of synchronized heartbeats.”
The notion of hearts beating together as one, such a lyrical concept. . . Carlita—now wide-awake—puzzled over who could be conveying such intimate details to her. Absentmindedly, she slipped her hand in the pocket of her brown, hand-knit sweater and rubbed John’s wedding band between her fingers—the ring yet another reminder of her crushing loss.
The poetic voice continued: “Without the love of my life, I will never eat, never drink, never breathe in life again. I cannot, no, it would be cheating.”
“Who are you,” Carlita asked.
“I am the Hindu goddess Dhumavati, known as the eternal widow, and I mourn all those lost loves.”
“Dhumavati? I’ve never heard of you. Are you there with my John? Can you get a message to him?”
Silence. Carlita’s heart skipped a beat as she waited for a reply. More silence. As the seconds dragged on to minutes, the silence chilled Carlita deep into her bones. After staying motionless, seemingly in a trance, waiting, waiting, waiting, she snapped to. Carlita ran to find the laptop among her scattered papers on her desk to look up this “Dhumavati.” She read the first paragraph of an entry on an encyclopedia site:
From the Sanskrit, meaning “the smoky one,” Dhumavati is one of the ten Tantric goddesses. She represents the fearsome aspect of the Hindu Divine Mother. Often portrayed as an old, ugly widow, she is associated with things considered inauspicious. Worship of Dhumavati is thought ideal for widows and bachelors. Though there are few temples dedicated to Dhumavati, her worship by Tantric ritual continues in secluded locations such as forests and cremation grounds.
So, Carlita thought, I’m supposed to worship this ugly old goddess at a crematory? How bizarre. She could not put aside her disappointment. If only this Hindu widow had really come to her from the spirit world, Carlita might have had one more chance at communicating her love to John.
She felt her guilt well up as tears streamed down her face. Recalling the final conversation she’d had with John, Carlita cringed at her blasé attitude toward him. She was so preoccupied with preparing for her law firm interview that she did not even wish him a good day before leaving, much less tell him of the depth of her love. Oh, the unfairness of it all, indeed.
After abandoning the computer screen, Carlita dragged herself to the bathroom, going through the nighttime rituals of teeth brushing and such by route without noticing his commonplace items, now momento mori, littering the bathroom, including his green-handled toothbrush. As she reclined on her side of the king-size bed, she wondered to what lengths she might go to let her John know just how much she loves him. Loved him—for he was gone, gone, gone.
Before drifting off, Carlita made a mental note to visit the town’s local wellness center to peruse its listings of mediums to try to reconnect with her unearthly visitor. And in her heart, Carlita held tight the wish that this Dhumavati goddess, ghost, or whatever she was, just might reunite her with her dead husband.