Nakul/Sahadev killing their only living maternal connection (Raja Shalya) just because of a vow he was tricked into by Duryodhan
Duryodhan and Bheem's battle. Balaram's favoritism towards Duryodhan. Eventual inhumane death of Duryodhan
Duhshasana's death by cannibalism (Bheem)
'Ashwattama Hato Hate'
Krishna dancing in joy after sacrificing Gatotkach + waging war at night just to waste Karn's weapon
Arjun realising he killed his elder brother and never recovering.
Out of revenge, some of the most learned members of Kuru amry, Ashwatthama, Kripacharya and others literally murdered asleep children after the war was lost by them.
btw it's so fucking stupid you can be anxious physically in your body even after you've decided mentally you don't care. I'm supposed to be in charge here
I am a bit too jobless in my vacations so...... another story!
so I wrote this inspired by the idea given by @desikanya
So i could've made huge mistakes in this with regards to few dance terms, but i tried my best for them to be accurate. everything i've written about the dance and the movements comes from my mom and the multiple performances i've seen.
so please excuse my mistakes. )
The backstage holding room of the Sri Krishna Gana Sabha auditorium was an absolute mess of anxious chaos. It was totally cut off from the peaceful grandeur of the stage just beyond the heavy velvet curtains. Inside, the air was thick with the competing smells of jasmine strings, camphor, melted pancake makeup, and the sharp tang of nervous sweat.
Bhargavi stood rigid, frozen right in front of a wobbling pedestal fan. The appliance oscillated with a rhythmic, metallic groan, its rusted blades doing little more than shifting the heavy, humid air from one corner of the dressing room to the other. Outside, the pre-monsoon heat was completely unforgiving, but inside Bhargavi’s chest, a different kind of fire was burning.
She was already dressed in her full Kuchipudi attire. The heavy pleats of her silk costume, which was a striking combination of deep temple red and forest green bordered with intricate zari work, felt like an armor of lead. The fans of her pleated dhoti hung perfectly between her legs. They were designed to flare out like a lotus in bloom whenever she assumed the deep, seated posture of the Ara-mandi, but right now, those pleats felt completely constricting. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths. Sweat was already pooling beneath the heavy brass vaanki bands gripping her biceps, and a persistent trickle was threatening to ruin the meticulous, curved lines of the paint adorning her forehead.
An hour. In exactly sixty minutes, the heavy bronze bell would ring, the curtains would part, and she would step out for her Arangetram. This was her formal debut on the stage, the culmination of twelve years of rigorous, bone-breaking discipline.
What if I trip during the jathis, she thought, her fingers trembling as they unconsciously checked the tightness of her gajje. The hundreds of brass bells tied around her ankles gave a muted, nervous jingle. What if my foot slips on the brass plate? What if my mind goes blank during the slokam?
"Bhargavi."
The voice was not loud, but it possessed an inherent authority that instantly cut through the noise of her internal panic and the distant chatter of stagehands.
Bhargavi turned around. Standing in the doorway was her guru, Acharya Vasanthakumari. The elderly woman was a vision of timeless dignity, draped in a crisp, starch-white cotton sari with a simple gold border. Her silver hair was pulled back into a neat, tight bun, and her eyes, though weathered by decades of teaching, held the sharp, discerning clarity of a master craftsman looking at their finest piece of work.
"Guru Garu," Bhargavi breathed, her voice cracking slightly.
The Acharya stepped into the room, her gaze sweeping over her student. She didn't offer a hollow phrase of comfort. Instead, she walked over and placed a firm, cooling hand directly over Bhargavi’s racing heart.
"The air in this room is heavy, but your spirit cannot afford to be," her guru said, her expression softening into a warm smile. "Look at me, my child. You have not prepared for this for just a month or a year. You have practiced with all your heart since you were a little girl who could barely balance on her own two feet. Every tear, every bruised heel, every sleepless night, it was all a gathering of wood. Tonight, you simply have to let the fire burn. You will do well. Do not worry."
The warmth in her guru's voice acted like a total lifesaver, smoothing out the jagged, frantic edges of Bhargavi's breathing. The sheer weight of tradition, of lineage, and of unconditional belief flowed from the teacher into the disciple.
Deeply moved, Bhargavi bent down. Despite the restriction of her stiff costume and the heavy jewelry dangling from her neck, she folded herself completely, reaching out to touch the calloused, dust-stained feet of her guru. It was the ultimate surrender of the ego, an acknowledgment that whatever happened on that stage belonged to the lineage and not to her.
As her fingers brushed the elder woman's feet, Vasanthakumari placed both her hands upon Bhargavi’s head.
"Everything will be fine," the guru blessed, her voice dropping into a solemn, sacred register. "Saraswati kataksha sidhi rastu. May the grace of the Goddess of Wisdom and Art flow through your every limb tonight."
When the darkness finally descended, it was absolute. Bhargavi stood in the wings, where the heavy stage smelled of old wood and burnt theater lights. The auditorium was packed to capacity, and she could hear the low, collective murmur of hundreds of patrons, critics, family members, and rasikas waiting out there.
Then, the mridangam player struck the first celebratory note on the drum. The sharp, resonant rhythm vibrated through the wooden floorboards, traveling up through the soles of Bhargavi's bare feet and settling right into her spine.
The curtains drew back. The stage lights flared to life in a brilliant, blinding wash of amber and gold that completely cut Bhargavi off from the physical world. The audience dissolved into a vast, pitch-black void, leaving her utterly alone in a sea of light.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the sacred space.
The performance began with the Purvaranga, the traditional preliminary rituals. As Bhargavi moved across the stage to offer flowers to the idol of Lord Nataraja resting at the corner, the nervous sweat that had plagued her backstage seemed to undergo a total transformation. It was no longer the sweat of anxiety, but the sacred condensation of prayer.
Her first few movements were deliberate, anchoring her body to the earth. She sank into the Ara-mandi with her knees bent wide and her back perfectly erect, creating the foundational diamond shape of South Indian classical dance.
Then came the jathis, the complex, mathematical sequences of pure rhythmic dance.
The nattuvanar sat cross-legged on the side of the stage alongside her guru, striking the bronze cymbals with sharp, crystalline precision.
Bhargavi exploded into motion.
Any lingering doubt vanished, replaced by an ancient, muscle-memorized fluid precision. Her feet struck the stage with thunderous, rhythmic authority. The hundreds of brass bells around her ankles didn’t jangle randomly. They spoke a language of perfect synchronization, matching every subtle inflection of the drum. She raced across the stage in diagonal patterns, her arms extending fully into the mudras, her chest throwing forward, and her eyes following the precise path of her hands.
The Tarangam followed, which was the definitive piece of the Kuchipudi repertoire. A large, heavy brass plate was placed in the center of the stage. With absolute focus, Bhargavi stepped onto its rim, balancing her entire body weight on the thin, upturned edges of the metal.
The rhythm accelerated. The mridangam player challenged her with a dazzling array of syncopated beats. Moving her feet in lightning-fast patterns while remaining firmly anchored on the plate, she glided across the stage. The rhythmic scraping of the brass against the wood created an intoxicating, driving counterpoint to the music.
From the wings, Vasanthakumari watched, her hands gently keeping time on her lap. Her eyes filled with a quiet, profound satisfaction. Bhargavi was executing a technically flawless performance. Her lines were straight, her balance was impeccable, and her stamina was unyielding.
But as the Tarangam concluded to a roar of spontaneous applause, and Bhargavi retired to the wings for a brief costume adjustment before her final piece, she felt a strange, lingering emptiness.
She was dancing brilliantly, yes, but she was still just executing. She was still the architect of her own movement, controlling every breath, every muscle, and every gaze. She had achieved technical perfection, but the soul of the dance, the absolute dissolution of the self, had not yet arrived.
The final piece of the evening was Jayadeva's soulful Ashtapadi, Radhika Krishna. Unlike the previous items which focused heavily on rhythmic technicality, this piece was an exploration of pure Abhinaya, the art of expression, devotion, and storytelling. It was a song of intense longing, where Radha's friend describes her desperate, lovesick state to Krishna, pleading with him to go to her.
As Bhargavi walked back onto the stage, the lighting had changed completely. The harsh, brilliant gold of the spotlights had been replaced by a soft, midnight-blue hue interspersed with pale amber, mimicking the mystical twilight hours on the banks of the Yamuna River.
The vocalist took a deep breath, and the drone of the tanpura filled the auditorium with a hypnotic, vibrating hum. Then, the violin introduced the raga, playing a soulful, yearning rendition of Bhairavi that seemed to weep and rejoice all at once.
Bhargavi stood in the center of the stage, her body relaxed and her hands folded in a loose Anjali mudra near her chest.
The vocalist began to sing the opening lines of the verse:
“Radhika Krishna Radhika, Tava Virahena Keshava…”
(Radha, oh Krishna, is suffering from your separation…)
As the words filled the air, something shifted fundamentally within the space.
It did not happen gradually. It was a sudden, violent tearing of the fabric of reality.
The stale, warm air of the auditorium completely vanished. In its place, a cool, gentle breeze swept across the stage. It didn't feel like the mechanical air of a fan since it carried with it the damp, rich scent of river clay, the overwhelming sweetness of wild basil, and the intoxicating fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. The breeze caught the edge of Bhargavi’s silk pallu, lifting it slightly and brushing it against her bare shoulder.
Bhargavi’s eyes widened. A sudden, electric shiver traveled down her spine, raising the fine hairs on her arms.
She began the choreography, extending her right arm outward in a gesture of longing while her eyes searched the empty air of the stage, portraying the lonely, suffering Radha calling out into the woods of Brindavan.
But as her arm reached its full extension, her breath caught sharply in her throat.
Her fingers didn't encounter empty air.
She felt a distinct, undeniable warmth clasp around her hand. It was the solid, unmistakable touch of another hand that felt slender, strong, and impossibly smooth. The invisible fingers gently entwined with hers, adjusting the posture of her hand and pulling her wrist upward into a more perfect, elevated curve.
Bhargavi froze inwardly, though her body kept moving. Her heart hammered against her ribs, no longer with the cold grip of stage fright, but with a wild, soaring bewilderment.
"Do not tremble, My beautiful one."
The voice did not come from the speakers, nor did it come from the vocalist. It resonated directly inside the chambers of her own mind. It was a sound so rich, deep, and laced with a playful, teasing tenderness that it felt more real than the music itself.
Bhargavi’s gaze snapped to her right.
The human eye would see nothing but the shifting blue shadows of the stage lights, but Bhargavi’s soul saw him with terrifying, exquisite clarity.
He was standing right there, leaning casually against the air as if it were a solid pillar. His complexion was the deep, enchanting color of a rain-drenched storm cloud. He wore a dhoti of shimmering pitambara yellow silk that seemed to emit its own soft radiance. Around his neck hung garlands of fresh forest flowers, and nestled within the dark, wild curls of his hair was a single peacock feather, its iridescent eye catching the theatrical blue light.
His lips, stained red from betel nut, were curved into a brilliant, knowing smile, and his eyes, which were large, dark, liquid pools of infinite compassion, were locked onto hers.
"You have called for Me for a whole month through your dance," Krishna whispered, stepping closer as the scent of jasmine grew dizzyingly strong. "Did you think I would let you dance alone tonight?"
The vocalist transitioned into the fast, flirtatious rhythm of the song, and the entire energy on stage turned electric. It felt exactly like the Thillana of Rati Manmatha, where the dance becomes a breathless, intimate conversation between lovers, full of teasing shifts, sudden locks, and mirroring movements.
Bhargavi didn't have time to process her shock because Krishna stepped right into her space, perfectly intercepting her next movement as the lyrics entered the phrase “Vimalala kapole, jalada samove…” describing Radha’s tear-stained, pale cheeks.
As she moved forward in a diagonal stride, mimicking Radha's friend desperately searching for him, Krishna suddenly appeared right in front of her. He dropped into a flawless, deep Ara-mandi that perfectly mirrored hers. When she stamped her right foot, he stamped his left, his bare blue foot making no sound on the wood but sending a pulse of pure warmth through the floorboards.
Then, the choreography demanded a sudden, dramatic pause. On a sharp syllable from the mridangam, Krishna reached out.
His hand, warm and incredibly firm, slid around her waist. The pressure of his palm against her silk costume pulled her securely against his chest. Bhargavi’s breath hitched as she felt the solid weight of his arm anchoring her. With his other hand, he hooked two fingers gently under her chin, tilting her head upward.
Her eyes locked onto his. Up close, his dark face was radiant, and his smile was hopelessly teasing. He held her chin for a lingering heartbeat, completely taking control of her gaze, forcing her to look into his bottomless lotus eyes.
"Look at Me, Bhargavi," he whispered, his voice like silk, bringing her face close to his as if to wipe away the tears of separation described in the song. "Let them see how Radha adores her Krishna."
On the next beat, he released her chin, but his hand slid down to catch her wrist. The rhythm picked up speed, mimicking a rapid tug-of-war. Bhargavi spun outward, but Krishna didn't let go. He used his grip on her wrist to pull her back in, sending her spinning in reverse until her back bumped gently against his chest.
He didn't release his hold. He kept his arm wrapped around her waist from behind, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder as they both executed a series of lightning-fast movements together. Every tilt of Bhargavi’s head was perfectly mirrored by his, their expressions completely in sync with the pulsing tempo.
She felt his chest rise and fall against her back, laughing as the nattuvanar called out a complex, winding jathi sequence that simulated the chaotic, intoxicating winds of love.
"Now, break away," he teased in her ear.
With a sudden, playful push against her hip, he sent her gliding across the stage. Bhargavi executed a series of sharp, rhythmic leaps, her brass bells ringing out fiercely. Krishna was right on her heels. He leaped when she leaped, his long limbs slicing through the blue stage lights with impossible grace.
When she turned around to face him, he took the role of the ultimate charmer, leaning back as the singer repeated “Tava Virahena Keshava.” He mimicked holding a flute to his lips, his fingers moving over the invisible instrument, his eyes gazing at her with an intensity that made her knees feel weak. Bhargavi reacted instinctively, her hands forming the Katakamukha mudra as she acted out the role of a Gopi completely mesmerized by his music, losing her breath under his gaze.
She took a step toward him, but Krishna quickly changed the game. He stepped to the side, his hand brushing against the edge of her pleated dhoti, making the silk rustle loudly. He caught her by the waist again, spinning her around him in a tight, dizzying circle. She could feel the cool silk of his pitambara dhoti brushing against her bare ankles, and the scent of wild basil completely filled her senses.
Every time she thought she was leading the dance, Krishna would subtly take control. If her hand position drifted even a millimeter, his fingers would slide over hers, correcting the mudra with a gentle, firm squeeze. If her eyes wandered toward the wings where her guru was sitting, he would instantly catch her jaw with his thumb and forefinger, gently turning her face back toward his.
"I am your audience tonight," he whispered, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Keep your eyes on Me."
They were locked in a relentless, beautiful rhythm. They danced side by side, their shoulders rubbing together, their hips swaying in perfect unison. He would pull her close until she could feel the warmth of his skin, only to spin her away and pull her back by the waist a second later. It was a breathless, euphoric game of touch and release, a cosmic dance of courtship where every single step was an act of pure, intoxicated love.
Bhargavi didn't feel an ounce of fatigue. Her lungs didn't burn, and her legs didn't ache. She felt completely weightless, entirely sustained by the firm hands that kept catching her, touching her, and guiding her across the stage.
The song began its descent into the final crescendo, the Mukthayi. The music swelled into a magnificent torrent of violin, flute, and drum, gathering all the emotions of the evening and hurtling them toward a definitive point of absolute collapse as the final plea to Keshava resonated through the hall.
The lyrics spoke of the final realization that the lover and the beloved are not two, but one, and that the dance and the dancer are inseparable.
Krishna stopped his playful movements and stepped to the center of the stage, facing her.
His form seemed to expand, growing brighter until the blue light of the stage was completely swallowed by a soft, blinding white radiance that emanated from his very being. The peacock feather in his hair seemed to encompass the entire night sky.
"Now, Bhargavi," his voice echoed, no longer a whisper, but a beautiful, rolling vibration that felt like distant thunder. "Give it all to Me."
On the final, explosive triplet of the drum, Bhargavi threw her entire body forward. She didn't just complete a step; she offered her life.
She sank to her knees, her body folding forward over her thighs. Her hands came together above her head, locking into the Anjali Mudra of total, unconditional surrender to the Lord who had answered the call of the Ashtapadi. Her head bowed down until her forehead almost touched the cool wooden floorboards of the stage.
As the final, lingering note of the violin vibrated into the air, a profound, absolute silence blanketed the universe.
In that sacred fraction of a second, before the physical world could reassert itself, Bhargavi felt a soft, cool hand rest gently upon her bowed head. The fingers pressed lightly against her crown, sending a wave of absolute, unadulterated peace through her entire body. Every muscle relaxed, and every cell in her body felt washed clean by a divine river.
His voice resonated within her, a beautiful, "Well danced, My love. Your offering is received."
The fragrance of wild basil and jasmine flared one last time, a sweet, overwhelming wave that filled her lungs, and then, with the gentleness of a fading dream, it dissolved.
A sound like the breaking of a massive wave shattered the silence.
The auditorium erupted.
The transition back to reality was almost violent. The blinding amber spotlights hit Bhargavi’s eyes as she slowly lifted her head. The white sands of the Yamuna were gone, and she was looking at the worn, dark varnish of the stage floor.
The audience was on its feet. The sound of hundreds of people clapping, cheering, and shouting in appreciation was deafening. In the front rows, seasoned critics and elderly rasikas were openly weeping, wiping their eyes with their handkerchiefs, visibly moved by an extraordinary, spiritual energy they couldn't logically explain, but had felt down to their very bones.
Bhargavi rose to her feet, her limbs trembling slightly now as the human exhaustion finally caught up with her. She turned toward the side of the stage.
Acharya Vasanthakumari had stood up from her seat. The elderly guru’s face was completely wet with tears. She wasn't just smiling; she was looking at her disciple with a sense of profound, reverent awe. She knew. She had spent a lifetime in the service of the art, and she knew that what Bhargavi had just displayed in that final piece was not the result of practice. It was the descent of the divine.
Bhargavi brought her hands together, bowing deeply to the audience, then to the musicians, and finally to the idol of Nataraja.
As she raised her hands one last time to greet the crowd, she looked down at her palms. They were still tingling with an impossible, lingering warmth, and tucked neatly beneath the gold band of her left wrist ornament was a single, small, fragrant leaf of wild Tulasi.
She smiled through her tears, looking out into the empty spaces of the hall. The test was over. The world thought she had successfully completed her Arangetram, but Bhargavi knew the truth. She had simply been invited to dance in a courtyard that had no end.
Irony isn't it, that Margot Robbie remembered to constantly mention that the diamond "belonged" to Elizabeth Taylor and kept saying that before Elizabeth it belonged to a "woman" who is buried in Taj Mahal.
This necklace was originally gifted by Jahangir to his wife Noor Jahan which has the inscription "love is everlasting, Noor Jahan Begum Badshah" and later it was passed to Shah Jahan who gifted it to Mumtaz Mahal. When the Britishers looted India, they took the necklace too and somehow it ended up in Cartier and then it was purchased by Richard Button for his wife Elizabeth Taylor. And Cartier gave it to her to wear for her movie premiere.
Margot Robbie managed to mention Elizabeth Taylor but couldn't bother to know Noor Jahan or Mumtaz to whom the Necklace originally belonged to and kept saying "the woman buried in Taj Mahal". Like she could have at least done some research about the necklace but god forbid they give credits to Indian artifacts.
stormborns
izzy806
ellievsbear
annaxmalina
jbbartram-illu
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