Durga was also present, astride a fierce tiger riding into my world with urgency, weapons in all ten hands. The Goddesses were next to the shiny oil lamp, a packet of musky sandalwood incense and a large yellow box of Ship’s matches. Every morning the ritual of warming golden ghee and pouring it into the brassy cupola of the oil lamp, evoked a kind of richness like the festooned palaces of India.

My Mother was my nourishment, my safety and my companion. She was my rising Sun, my source of light, I was her shadow in those early years, finding comfort in her presence. I loved moments of deep quiet when Mum and I were alone at home, an unusual feat in our noisy Indian household, Sikh shabads constantly playing extra loud on the silver boombox in my Dad’s bedroom, the sound echoing throughout the house.

In those precious moments of quiet, I would be awoken in the morning with the wafting sweet fragrance of rose incense and a splash of Amrit on my face as Mum blessed the whole house, undertaking her devotional prayer and sadhana.

I loved to hear the sound of whispering Mantras as she moved her fingers deftly over her simple mala made of yarn, her Mother’s old gutka at her side the Gurmukhi Akhar of the Mool Mantra and Sukhmani Sahib decorating the yellowed delicate and crumbling pages.

I learned how to conduct rituals, sit in prayer and practice in silent wonder. I still have my Mother’s gutka; her Mother’s gutka, within which I discovered a scrap of paper, my Mothers handwriting, in Gujarati, a recipe, a prayer, a note? An echo of her being, a moment of her life captured unassuming but magical, just like my Mum.

My Mother soaked raw almonds in water overnight, to soften the skins and unyielding nutmeat. In the morning she would carefully peel each one, sprinkling them with a little sugar for me and my brother… nourishment for the brain and body, prepared with unyielding love.

She picked bright green fresh mint from the garden and alchemised it into mouth-watering chutney and medicinal tea. She diligently prepared fresh ghee, a whole bhorie of butter melted in a huge stainless steel pan, the creamy butter heating and bubbling into golden rivulets, the curds and whey separating like magic, the sweet and nutty scent wafting into my nostrils.

In the summer months huge quantities of whole spices were cleaned, cumin, cardamom, cloves and black peppercorns picking out stones and dirt, washed and laid out in the garden to dry naturally in the sun… once sundried the mixture would be taken to the Gujarati man in Convent Way, Southall, to grind in his industrial sized grinder into the most deliciously fragrant and perfect Garam Masala, its scent warm and spicy, clouds of richness tickling the nostrils.

My Mother showed me how to appreciate the innate abundance and natural fecundity of nature, of The Mother. She taught me how to enjoy the sweet juiciness of the mango, how to use all of the senses to engage with it, and how to unlock the sunshine of the yellow fruit. I learned how to see ripeness, the brightness and orangey hue of it, how to feel it, gently pressing my fingertips into the fruit.

To know if it had absorbed enough light and heat to soften the flesh to perfection, and how to squeeze the pulp inside the whole fruit, tearing it open with my teeth to imbibe the syrupy flesh, the prize of the luscious nectar within. Thus The Mother taught me how to experience pleasure, how to be fully present to and with the gifts of physicality; how to be engrossed in the world.

My Mother named me Gurdeep, the light of the Guru…born to serve as a guiding light. I was the flame inside my Mother’s womb, and together, we were the flame inside my Grandmother’s womb; we flickered there together, beginning our journey, becoming brighter and brighter until the heat, the power of the energy could no longer be subdued as we birthed into the world twice each.

The Mother, my Mother; is the flame within my heart. The flame burned with an increasing intensity, burning down every version of myself that I thought I was, peeling away layers of illusion layer after layer, after layer, year after year after year.

My Mother gifted me the traditions of my ancestors, her wisdom and knowledge residing deep inside the rich marrow of her bones enlivened by her Soul. The treasure of teachings passed into me through osmosis… the mementos of my lineage transferred through the matriarchal lineage of all time.

The poetic prose of the Sri Guru Granth Sahib is the thing that I happily inherited from the faith of my birth, but the rest of it hit my woman’s heart like an anathema… I felt the sting of the patriarchal form created by men who sought power rather than embodying the egalitarian values of Guru Nanak Dev Ji, men whose ‘values’ did not consider women as equals, men who controlled the religion; not a female priest in sight!

It was the Goddesses of my ancestors who called to my Soul, their beauty and strength in their female form magnetized and enthralled me. My path was paved by the gold coins and weapons of the Divine Feminine. I followed in the wake of The Goddess, The Mother, my first Guru, until I reclaimed my place as an equal, to shine light of Truth as a Priestess, serving the Infinite as a woman.

My Mother also gave me the gift of her pain… it was collective, passed down from generation to generation, through the Grandmothers, Mothers and down to me, who would never be a physical birth Mother in this lifetime. They foresaw that I would endure pain, so that I could learn to take the raw material of it and turn it into the most intimate song of emotion, a symphony of liberating joy and tears.

Their collective Soul wisdom knew that I was strong and sassy enough to bear what they couldn’t, so that I could transmute it, filling the space created with their mighty love, and to bring the unconditional Love of The Mother to those who needed it, those who were Motherless or bereft of love.

My first Guru was my mother, my first Guru was The Mother. My altar is a dedication to her, a dedication to Her. She is the source of all, the Creator of Worlds, the Queen of all time. My Mother, my Guru. I lay prostrate in devotion to you great Mother.

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