As a seeker, the poetry of St John of the Cross, Basho, Hafiz and Nammalvar has often rescued me in difficult times. But a recurrent question that has gnawed at me is, “Where are the women?” I mean the real women. Women of flesh and blood.
Women with bodies and bewilderments. Women who asked deeper questions and refused to settle for status quoist answers. Did they even exist? Of course, the Indian subcontinent offers us its customary pantheon – Mirabai, Akka Mahadevi, Andal.
But calendar art and mythological comics routinely present them as plaster saints, demure and other-worldly, their gazes modestly downcast, or turned beatifically heavenward. In these bland asexual paragons of virtue, there seems little sign of complexity – or even of humanity. Surely there is more to these women than this prettified postcard spirituality, this ornamental yearning? That was the beginning of ‘Wild Women’, an anthology of female mystic poetry in the Indian subcontinent.
It began with a simple curiosity that gradually gained intensity and momentum. As my research intensified, I began to uncover a heritage of powerful passionate verse that was a far cry from the songs of swooning submission to which I was accustomed. These weren’t spineless worshippers.
These were sassy, feisty spiritual seekers. Why hadn’t I heard the edge in their voices earlier? Perhaps because religious narratives have flattened them into anaemic stereotypes, while rationalist narratives have trivialized .