He nodded. “I know.” His voice deepened. “You think I ask for no reason? That question is a blade. It’s time to cut through.” She looked up. “You see,” he said, “a mirror doesn’t lie. But it hurts, doesn’t it? You see the scars. The sunken eyes. The face that has witnessed things no child should. It’s like watching yourself in a film where your body is dissected and you're expected to walk out still whole.” She stayed quiet. “But a Tantrika,” he continued, “must look. Not to admire. Not to judge. To witness. To accept the parts she’s hidden, even from herself. Especially those.” He paused. “You cannot carry the keris with full strength… until you can face the one holding it.”
She hesitated. Then, almost sheepishly, she said, “I once saw a movie. The mirror came alive. The person looking into it got pulled in swallowed by it. Inside, there were mirrors within mirrors. Endless reflections. No way out.” She lowered her gaze.
“Sometimes… I think about that when I see myself. What if I get pulled in too? What if I lose myself — in all the versions I’ve been trying to forget?”
The guru didn’t laugh. He nodded. “That,” he said, “is not just a movie scene. That is maya, illusion. The mind spinning stories, trying to protect you, yes… but also keeping you trapped.”
He leaned forward, steady now, deliberate. “But what if… the mirror doesn’t pull you in? What if it returns you to yourself?”
She gave a quiet laugh, part irony, part defence. Then asked softly, “Is the mirror a true reflection of the self... or just what the mind wants to see?”
The guru’s eyes lit up. He clapped his hands once, delighted. “Aaaah! That is deep. Now that is the real question.” He sat back, smiling. “Shall we talk about it?”
And just like that, the conversation shifted from fear to philosophy, from haunted memory to sacred inquiry. From keris to consciousness. From Object to essence. From the blade.. to the gaze The guru leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing not in suspicion, but contemplation.
“You know,” he said, “in the Shakta path… the mirror is not something to fear.” She looked at him. He continued, “Some sadhikas they do pūjā in front of a mirror. They sit, just like you and I now, and gaze at their reflection”
She frowned. “You mean they worship themselves?”
He smiled. “They worship the truth in themselves. Not ego. Not vanity. But essence. You look into the mirror and instead of seeing flaws, awkwardness, shame you see Shakti. Power. Presence. You bow to it. Not to the face… but to the force behind it.”
She was quiet. “Maybe,” he said gently, “you don’t fear the mirror. Maybe you fear what you might see. Or what you might become, once you see it.”
Then he paused… and his voice softened further. “Or maybe,” he said, “there’s something you’re not telling me.” Her eyes dropped.
“This fear of seeing yourself in the mirror it’s more than discomfort. It’s old. Heavy. It carries a story, doesn’t it?” She didn’t answer. Not immediately. The room held its breath with her. He leaned forward just slightly, not pressing just present. “You want to talk about it?”
She swallowed. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s not one thing. It’s not like a memory I can point to.”
“That’s okay. Start somewhere,” he said. “Sometimes the thing we bury deepest only needs to be named once, and the mirror softens.” She was quiet for a long time. The guru waited not pushing, not moving.
Then she spoke. “There is something I’ve never told you. Not even my husband knows.” Her voice had dropped. Barely above a whisper. “When I was a girl say about 10 years old, there was this boy… a neighborhood boy. Older than me about 7 years. He used to watch me and my friends playing at the playground. I didn’t think much of it then. He always seemed kind. Familiar. Safe.” Her hands clenched in her lap.
“One day, I arrived earlier than usual. The playground was still empty. He called out to me. Said my friends were waiting at his house in the basement. I didn’t question it. I trusted him.” A breath. “I followed him. And when I got there he locked the door.” Her voice broke slightly. Then steadied. “He hugged me. Started touching me. Places no one should. I fought. Kicked. Told him I’d scream. He let go, told me not to tell anyone. Begged me.”
She looked away, eyes glistening. “I went home. In tears. Straight into my room. And the first thing I saw was myself in the mirror. This... this timid, frightened girl staring back at me. I hated her.”
Her voice grew firmer. “So I hit the mirror. With my fist. As hard as I could. It shattered. I didn’t care. I just couldn’t stand her. That girl. That look.” She paused, inhaled. “And I made a vow. That I would never be weak again. Never let anyone touch me without my permission. Never let myself be taken by surprise like that. Not ever again.” The silence after her confession felt thick, almost sacred.
The guru didn’t rush in with words. He just nodded. Slowly. Letting her know: I heard you. I see you. Then, softly “You didn’t break the mirror,” he said. “You broke the story that mirror was showing you.”
She looked up. “You saw weakness,” he continued. “But what I see is power. A girl who fought back. A girl who threatened him. Who walked away. Who made a vow.” She stayed quiet, but her breathing had shifted.
“Most people,” he said, “never find their fire. You found yours early. That moment painful as it was forged something. Not fear. Strength.”
He let the words sit before adding “But strength doesn’t mean silence. Or hiding. Not forever.” She looked away.
“The mirror, is not your enemy. It doesn’t hold judgment. It holds presence. You don’t have to see the frightened girl anymore. You can see you, now the woman who lived through it. Who carried that fire. Who carries it still.” She blinked. He gestured gently, as if framing an invisible image.
“Maybe it’s time to sit in front of the mirror again. Like the sadhikas do. Not to worship your image. But to bow to the strength that’s lived inside you all along.”
