देवहूति

poet and writer inspired by Indian/hindu mythos

[devahutii]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61797949

Wanted to shamelessly promo my panchal family fic! Your poem was the very first panchal family post I reblogged and ever since then my obsession has only grown aaa!!

Wait the link isn't working can you tell me your ao3 username cuz I DEFINITELY will be reading this🙏🙏💗💗💗

[friend-shaped-but]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61797949

try this one maybe?

[devahutii]

THANK YOUUU I will be soooo reading thissss god I'm such a sucker for amba/shikhandi!!

[devahutii]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61797949

Wanted to shamelessly promo my panchal family fic! Your poem was the very first panchal family post I reblogged and ever since then my obsession has only grown aaa!!

Wait the link isn't working can you tell me your ao3 username cuz I DEFINITELY will be reading this🙏🙏💗💗💗

[devahutii]

*shaking nervously*

girl is your name irl actually devahuti😳😳

Yeahhh I know it's kinda eerie that my parents would name me literally "sacrifice to the gods" but I guess I'm still grateful that i got a (sort of?) exotic name🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

[blackknight-100]

Day 5: Pride

Shikhandi watches Bheeshma fall with no small amount of rage. He knows what happened was according to the plan. He knows, that to win, Bheeshma must have considered him a woman. It does not sting any less.

Long before he was a girl, before he was born, a lady had walked the Earth and cursed this warrior for spurning her after ruining her life. He should feel proud to have avenged her. He only feels shame. The cousins have gathered over Bheeshma’s gory body perforated with arrows like a pincushion. They weep together, bitter enmity forgotten over dying familial blood. He feels like an intruder.

He should be satisfied, that the one who refused to acknowledge his identity lies dead. He only feels used, like the incertitude of his gender was the only reason he had been selected for this unenvious destiny, and that his destiny was a direct catalyst for his identity. He stands apart, sorrowful and pitifully angry, like a bleating goat-kid protesting against the cruelty of the butcher’s knife. His father, however, is elated, and makes little pretense of joining the mourners, electing to pridefully gaze upon a son he had once scorned. Shikhandi has nothing to say. His existence has been rendered meaningless, and not because he has fulfilled his destiny. He is no more important in this war for the elephant throne (for no woman can be avenged by widowing a million more, Draupadi’s delusions be damned) and ready to be discarded. He hopes he would die soon. Krishna gives him a melancholy smile, like he knew what he was thinking. He probably did. Shikhandi cannot bear to stay there. He turns away, and begins the long trek to camp on foot. (If he spoke some kind words to a dying soldier because he had newfound realisations about the ‘pawns’ in this game, well then, it was not like there was anyone to tell the tale.)

Tagging @sundaralekhan

[abookwasallittooktomakemeacrook]

Now that Bhishma is dead, his existence has been rendered meaningless. He suspects he won't be the last. In this epic battle, treachery will be ever present and while he was used honourably, he doubts the ones after him shall be. He jaw hardens at Krishna's pitiful smile. For he knows that man would do anything, anything to make his friends win the war. The Pandavas aren't in the wrong, he knows that, and it is said that the ends justify the means, but that doesn't excuse the hundreds of thousands of innocent people losing their lives for what is basically a feud between two cousins for a throne. No woman can be avenged by widowing a million more, but he cannot voice this thought or the ones similar, to anyone, at all, because this is not his war to fight. He stares for a few more seconds, unthinkingly, at the scene in front of him. And then that sweet epiphany hits him: it's not his war to fight. A calm happiness spreads inside him. The number of people who write history is no less, there are innumerous legends. But give a few decades, and all of them are history. Why should he strive to create a place on a stage where all the actors have already performed? His walk towards the camp is not unmarked by grief, as many soldiers lay groaning out their last breaths of pain. He walks, an injured knight trying to navigate amongst the countless pawns, in a game where nobody except the king has any importance. He doesn't think he's deserving to be a king anymore. Yet his queen awaits. And perhaps a child in near future. But no matter what, a life, though shadowed by the sorrow of a past war, is still soft as the caress of the morning sunshine, and just as promising.

(so i just thought that trans characters, especially my emotional comfort trans character, should not have an unhappy ending)

[friend-shaped-but]

Since we're all putting our "Shikhandi in the aftermath of Bheeshma's death, I thought I'd throw my hat in the ring

“I know you- you probably do not want me to say this, right after what we just did, but, my condolences. I know it was difficult for you to do that to a respected elder,”

“Oho, you know what hard is?? I want to know, really, how you can show your face to me after- Hey I was wondering, are all of your princes bred to kill ours? What's next, huh? Drishtaketu killing Shatanik? How can you feel happy after definitely killing Pitamaha?”

“Why is it my fault if he refuses to fight me? It wasn’t seventy years ago for me, Arjun! It feels like it happened yesterday. So, what do you want to know huh? Do you want to know how, with the same hands that he used to pinch your little cheeks with, he dragged me away, kicking and screaming, unable to defend myself? Loaded me onto a chariot even when I was screaming at him that I was already betrothed? What do you want me to say? ‘Sorry for killing the man who hurt me and ruined my sisters’ life?’ Tell me you wouldn’t do the same for your siblings… Tell me-”

He felt a hand on his shoulder. His wife handed him his cane, and pulled him away from the argument. An arm around him, she escorted him back to their tent. Sitting down on the bed, she laid him down so his head was pillowed on her lap.

“You don’t need to apologize for doing that,” Shalaka said quietly. “I remember when you finally opened up to me, the pain and tears in your eyes. How you said that even though it had happened ages ago, it still felt like a fresh, festering wound to you. You missed your sisters, miss them even today. And how many times have you told the story to people? I know you talked to your parents, when you were young, and your brother and sister. I know you told me and Kshatradev, and I know for a fact that Vasudev also knows. You don’t need to keep repeating it,” she stroked his hair, “You don’t have to say anything, I’ve known you for many years. I can understand you without you needing to speak,”

“I won’t- I won't be, soon enough. I have been fighting for so long, I feel tired. If I- if I die before you, can you take care of Kshatra? What is there for me now? I’ve done what I came here to do. I Don't know if I’ll be able to walk without a cane again… Somewhere, wherever they are, I hope my sisters are proud of me. You know, I see them sometimes. When I met the late king, or King Dhritarashtra, I saw them. They looked like- like my sisters. I saw them in their sons, and all I could think of was the pain that my sisters went through. Tell me, was it worth it? Taking him down after he had already ruined the lives of many, many more women than just my two sisters? Sometimes I feel I wasn’t fighting for Ambika and Ambalika, but for- for yajnaseni. I never forgot those two, I swear! I promise you I never forgot them!” Even though he’d started in a quiet voice, he had gotten frantic by the time he finished.

“Shh, shh, I know. I know, okay. I know you didn’t.” Shalaka whispered. How could he have forgotten them, when he told of their plight with the pain and turmoil of a fresh wound? How, even now, he panicked when he thought he’d forgotten an aspect of their personalities, how his mission for his sisters actually became successful. How he was so single-minded.

“You know, I’ve grown up in a militaristic kingdom. All my life, I’ve seen men who never got over grudges going to war. They never give women a chance, say we are too flighty, too emotional, but men have always been the ones who ruined kingdoms and lives with their grudges and greed. I’ve seen men less single-minded than you neglect their families and kingdoms for petty reasons. But you? You persisted. Even after what I did, you worked so hard to build a relationship with me again. I remember the days before we were married. And I remember after we’d just become parents. Even when pursuing your goal, you never forgot your family. You never forgot us. You never forgot Panchali. Or Dhrishtadyumna. The story doesn’t have to end with the hero dying. Sometimes, he can complete his mission and live happily ever after with his family,” she smiled.

“Everyone says Revenge is bad, Shalaka. Is it wrong of me to feel free, like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders?”

“No,” Shalaka said, and bent down to kiss his forehead. “Not really.”

Shalaka felt her saree grow wet. Her husband wasn't crying openly, but he didn't need to make a sound for her to know. She never stopped stroking his hair, staying quiet as he let all of the exhaustion, pain, and exhilaration he felt after today. He looked so peaceful right now.

Their son walked in. Shalaka instinctively put a finger over her lips. Glancing over the scene, he took a blanket and draped it over Shikhandi, and sat on the side of the bed. “Is he happy now, mother? He was always so sad.”

“He will be, eventually. Don’t you worry about it.”

@rishabhaa the panchalpocalypse has started!!!!!!

[theramblergal]

Some (canonical) facts about Shikhandi because I was researching him for an ask:

He is the oldest son of Drupada. Born after Drupada performed penance to Mahadeva.

He was born a girl, but raised as a son. No one but Drupada and his wife Prishati knew the truth.

He's quite good at painting and the arts.

He was tutored by Drona in archery and other weaponry.

He was married to the princess of Dasharna, the daughter of king Hiranyavarma. As a woman still.

His wife didn't know Shikhandi was a woman for some time after the marriage.

When she did find out, she reported it to her father, who was angered at the deception and decided to wage war on the Panchalas.

Tangential, but Drupada trusts Prishati a lot: he asks for her advice, something not often seen in these stories.

Shikhandi was extremely ashamed by seeing his parents so dejected and decided to kill himself, and left Panchala, wandering into a forest.

The forest he went into was of the yaksha Sthunakarna, who asked why he was so dejected, and they exchanged their sex organs for a short time as Sthunakarna promised.

Sthunakarna was cursed by Kubera to remain as a woman until Shikhandi's death for not appearing before him.

But Shikhandi was faithful to his promise: he came back to Sthunakarna, who was very pleased with him and told him that he would remain a man.

Drupada "gave Shikhandi to Drona as a student" after this, so presumably, Shikhandi was taught twice over by Drona: once as a woman, once as a man.

Shikhandi had one son, Kshatradeva, who was killed by Lakshmana Kumar, Duryodhana's son.

That's all I can find for now. Maybe I'll come back and edit this when I find something else.

[favilla-of-the-night]

He knocks at each of the doors

And begs for alms

Some give him food,

Others turn away.

But he doesn't care.

He sings the Holy Name

Drenched in the color of the Lord.

He knows not hunger, he knows not pain,

Sleep has abandoned him,

And his thirst has been vanquished.

The swevens are sweet as apples

And he drinks in the nectarine words of his Lord in them.

Some are divine visions,

Bathing him in pure ecstasy.

To the wise one,

The world is merely a play.

And he knows that he is but an actor,

Dancing to the tunes of the Father.

The seeker travels far and wide seeking the Divine,

And at last,

Comes at the holy gates of Dwaraka.

He lays down on the ground,

Fanning his weary self.

The wind picks up speed and seems to whisper around the gates,

The Holy Name.

"Dwārakadheesha ShriKrishna",

It whispers.

The traveler smiles,

Tears welling up in his eyes at the Name 

And whispers,

"Prabhu"

As his eyes close, he hears a sweet male baritone,

"I am with you forever, son."

The seeker smiles and folds his trembling hands in reverence;  devotion and love oozing out of every pore out of his body.

And his mind thinks of only one thing,

'Hari',

Just the name brings a newfound energy in him, 

And he stands up, fresh as the new sun,

He resolves to follow the Preserver's path,

The path of dharma.

The path to service,

The path to moķşã.

"Krishnam vande jagadgurum",

He prays.

And suddenly he hears a rumbling sound.

Looking up, he smiles.

The Leelādhari is upto mischief again

As he pours down in the form of Shrāvan rain, 

Onto the seeker,

Drenching his saffron clothes in rain- the rain of His love.

And the saint, full of ecstacy begins dancing,

As his khartāl plays along with him.

And from the Heavens,

Nārayana smiles,

Looking down with the pride and love of a father

Onto His son.

As He promises to His devotees everywhere in the world,

I shall always be with you.

****

||Vasudaivasutamdevam kamsachānuramardanam Devaki  paramanandam, Krishnamvandejagatgurum||

[rhysaka]

When Sati’s form was struck by the sudarshan and was destroyed into pieces and ash, it were the elegant fingers of Shiva that picked up the specks and smeared them on his eyelids. The tears that welled in his eyes left gentle tracks on his ashen face and fell like a raging storm back onto the earth, feeding the rivers and turning them into floods.

He was a man mourning the loss of the warmth from his abode and for those moments he was intensely human, something he had not experienced for eons and something that he will now experience for ages until she comes back to him.

[devahutii]

Inherited

King dhrupada's children

Knew not of play nor of rest;

All they knew was of rage.

They bore fury

upon their foreheads,

As if it were a family crest.

Their blood seethed,

It boiled with wrath,

Just as their father's.

Fire blazed through their veins,

Through their lungs and brain,

For they were born of it.

Indignation had been embossed

Upon their chests;

Burning through flesh and bone,

Enshrined within their marrow.

King dhrupada's children

Knew not of play nor of rest;

All they knew was of rage.

[rahuvianprincess666-deactivated]

a woman of god ୨୧

[priimadonnna]

Desi angelic aesthetic ✨️

[rahuvianprincess666]

goddess of the waters ୨ৎ

[devahutii]

𝕭𝖍𝖊𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖒𝖆'𝖘 𝖕𝖑𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙...

Red the colour of blood

Red the colour of matrimony

Red the colour of lust

Red the colour of hatred

Red the colour of the silken curtains that fell from the ceilings over his face. Those curtains he pulled aside, he pulled apart, the silk tickling past his body as he navigated through the sea of red until he reached a halt- a velvet bed enveloped in satin sheets. He stood perplexed, the palm of his hand pressed against the cushion of the bed, feeling the smooth fabric in between the pads of his fingers.

Then he heard- a huff, a chuckle, a sigh. He felt eyes on him, beholding his broad back, his muscular arms, down to areas eclipsed. He spun, a certain way setting in his chest as he surveyed the extents of red silk that stretched forward all around him.

Then he saw it- a silhouette of a woman in red, her hips swaying, her hands gently pulling apart the silken curtains as she made her way towards him.

His breath hitched, air caught up in his lungs as he beheld the sight before him- it was her.

His body grew limp, paralysed in place as her scarlet painted lips grinned. She drew closer to him, her hand on his chest, as she pushed him down on his back into the bed. All air left his lungs as she mounted him, bracing his hips with her thighs. She bent down over him, her faces inches apart from his, the metallic smell of blood and attar emanating from her. He sucked on a sharp breath, she chuckled as she grinded against him, her hips rocking back and forth against him. He closed his eyes tightly shut, his two shuddering hands snaking up her thighs as he felt his hips rut up against her. With his mind hazed in ecstasy, his grip only bruisingly tightened as he reached his climax.

Then he opened his eyes, only to find not the maiden brimming with desire, but a woman with bloodshot eyes glaring back at him. Her lips twisted into a snarl, shivering with fury and vengeance in her mind, she had her arms up with a dagger in hand overhead. His eyes widened as the dagger came down upon his chest, sinking into his fevered heart as he came undone against her cunt.

Then he woke up- from the shock, baffled and heaving as his heart thundered in his chest. With beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, he got up, his body shivering from the unsettling omen that came to him in the form of a dream- or rather, a nightmare.

These were the nights of Bheeshma, haunted by visions of Amba. On some nights, he’d dream of family, not the one that he had to give up his manhood to protect, but of one of his own. He dreamt of children in a quaint little nursery, babbling and giggling euphorically as he took them into his arms as they were his own. He dreamt of a mother, a wife- doting on him just as she doted on his children.

But then he’d wake up, only to realise just who this wife of ‘his’ was- Amba.

She was the first to demand him in matrimony, to want him. She had been forbidden fruit, his jaw clenching, his throat bobbing at the sight of. Bheeshma of the tungsten oath, had only ever once reconsidered his vows for only one woman- Amba.

But one night, his previous dreams ceased to exist, as a new vision unveiled itself before him-a vision of a man, no longer the woman he was before. Bheeshma stood in sand, surrounded by the rued and rusted ruins of hastinapur, underneath the afternoon sun. In a distance stood Shikhandi, wielding a bow and arrow before him. With his body paralysed in place, he could only watch as the man with fury of a thousand suns in his eyes, strung his arrow into the bow and took aim. He could only watch as the man sent hundreds of arrows his way, falling upon him like a hundred broken stars. No longer was that alluring gaze, no longer was that soft caress, no longer was that femininity that had nearly disgraced him- only pain followed as a thousand arrows pierced his being.

As he cried out in pain, he woke up gasping and heaving for air. It was now that Bheeshma knew, through his fear stricken mind, that his end was nigh.

At a distance, trumpets and conches sounded as a war drew closer…..

•

•

•

[hum-suffer]

Abhimanyu loved palash flowers. Red and gold and orange, he often said they looked more like sunset than fire that poets called them.

Abhimanyu loved palash flowers. They grew in Dwarka by bunches. Against the green and brown of trees, they looked like waterfalls of the furnace, he said.

Abhimanyu loved palash flowers. He had planted his first plant of palash in the palace of Dwarka, he had watered it everyday after his sword practice.

Abhimanyu loved palash flowers. He fought ferociously against his grandfather, Vasudev, when he wanted to tear down his palash tree for the renovation of the palace.

Abhimanyu loved palash flowers. He hid in the branches of his palash tree when he ran from his mother. He stepped on his uncle, Krishna, and reached those heights with loud laughs. He watched his mother run around the tree as he hid.

Abhimanyu loved palash flowers. He wrapped them in leaves and took them to his father every time he was allowed to visit him. Arjun wore them in his hair proudly, said the flowers matched his ascetic clothes.

Abhimanyu loved palash flowers. When he was married, everyone who had seen him grow threw palash flowers on his head. He laughed when his aunt Revati claimed she specially ordered the flowers from Vidharbh for him, he knew she could possibly do it just for the ostentatious idea.

Abhimanyu loved palash flowers. Uttara wore the same colour as them the next day of their marriage. His aunt Rukmini and Elder mother Draupadi teased him red for it.

Abhimanyu loved palash flowers. His uncle Balram gave him a new bow for the upcoming war. It had palash flowers carved at all seven joints.

Abhimanyu loved palash flowers.

His pyre burnt the same colour as them.

[rhysaka]

Hindus, please do not take Mahabharata and Ramayana lessons from serials. Read the actual scriptures.

Books I’ll recommend for Mahabharata and Ramayana that were written after a lot of research and reading are -

You can read these if you don’t have the time to read the scriptures.