Sundaralekhan (“beautiful writing”) is back for 2026! This event will run from February 21 to February 27. You can make gifsets, moodboards, graphics, edits, fics, art, web weaves, or anything else you can think of! I will be tracking #sundaralekhan and #sundaralekhan2026, so be sure to tag your posts.
You can also mention the event blog (@sundaralekhan) or my main blog (@herawell) your post for good measure.
Credit for the prompts graphic goes to @friend-shaped-but! Header gif is made by me.
February 21: Folklore/local myths
This day is for exploring folklore, local myths, and other stories not in the mainstream.
February 22: Next Gen
This day is for exploring next generation characters from any of the epics or other myths.
February 23: Women-centric romance
This day is for exploring woman-centered romance, either femslash or het that focuses on the woman.
February 24: Rarepair
This day is for exploring rarepairs.
February 25: AU
This day is for imagining alternate universes, e.g. canon divergences, genderbends, modern settings, place swaps, etc.
February 26: Pride
This day is for exploring gender identities, orientations, and relationships that fall under the queer umbrella.
These are concept moodboards for a Maharashtrian Parvati x Tamil Shiva AU!! I'm planning for it to be a mature-ish romance with both of them being in their 30s and already having kids. She has Kapil(Ganapati) he has Kumaran(Murugan). Further notes under the cut!!
Sadasivan:
Pulled himself up from the bootstraps.
Worked in a watch shop when he was younger, is now a hospice attendant by day and indie percussionist by night.
Married Sati at 22(she was 24), had kumaran one year later
Daksha found her and she sent the two of them away for safety, died trying. (Think Sairat.)
Right now, he lives in a ground floor flat near Royapuram railway station, feeds all the strays near the building because they were the ones who helped him the most after Sati's death.
There are 3 extremely cute black voids patrolling the building ready to defend their hooman. They hate when hooman is sad.
Lost custody of his kid after a massive crashout
Pulls himself together and moves to Nashik later on, when he is about 29. Gains back custody soon after
Author's note: The aspect of Shiva I want to lean into here is the one that accepts and is chill with the outsiders of society-- the ones without conventional jobs, family structures, tastes in art, those dealing with hardships, etc. and the aspect that's deeply attuned to nature. Mountains are deeply special to me which is why we end back up in the Sahyadris.
Girija:
34 years old
Her great-grandparents moved from Dhadoshi to the main Nashik city and her grandfather built a pretty successful tourism business there.
She manages the mountaineering part and frequently leads treks and hikes.
Has a daughter named Shweta(dw he'll come out as transmasc when he's 15.)
Why is there a transmasc ganesh? because she made a kid in a lab with her bone marrow(please see the motif here) she's Just That Crazy. No one knows this they just think she found an abandoned baby looking scarily like her and adopted the kid.
10 million sidequests
can and will beat up creeps
One of the reasons she falls in love with him is that she sees how good he is with shweta and also how much of a jack of all trades he is.
My motivation behind making free-spirited trekker girija was that every single modern au/human au shiva-parvati story where he is a widower has an outrageously young parvati. So I decided every time I saw a weirdly young Parvati I'd just make her 5 years older(base age I started with was 18). And that's how we get 34 year old girija). The reason I saw weirdly young parvati only 5 times despite there being a wealth of such retellings is because I curate my experience on the internet. bye.
Komalavalli
finance bro.
girlboss
her and her husband live that lovely DINK lifestyle
Raghava
Sadasivan's bestie
Shipping logistics manager. Practically lives at the docks.
tries to help shiva when he's having his crashout, it doesn't always work because he keeps taking a tough love approach
For the first few months he keeps stalking sadasivan. this does not go well.
he still shows up to shiva's concerts sometimes, but in clothes that aren't fit for indie grunge type concerts: full traditionals, his work clothes, etc.
Tries to be strong and grown-up about sadasivan moving but. it doesn't work and he's in much sadma
In the morning, Mareecha – the dog, the beast below all beasts, the clod of dirt that did not bear a place even under Ravana’s ugly shoe – comes to them. He is dressed as he always is, bright, shining gold, barely short of being gaudy, and breathtakingly beautiful.
“Oh look!” Sita calls, like she always does. “Oh, oh, what a handsome deer!”
Lakshmana looks up obediently, as he always does, and his hands still where he is stoking the kitchen fire.
“Huh,” he says. “That can’t be a real deer.”
“Why not?” Sita is enraptured, already taken by the gilded body, the soft, innocent face. How sweet she is, and how naïve! And how naïve he had been too, all of them except Lakshmana.
“Deer look like deer,” his brother explains, eloquent as ever. “That is not a deer.”
“So you say!” Sita huffs and pouts, swaying like a sunflower on a stem. “Husband! Will you not speak on my behalf?”
Rama closes his eyes to meditate harder; pretends not to hear. Behind him, his brother snorts. “Really?”
Rama sighs. “It is very beautiful,” he acknowledges, because he is not a liar, and because he cannot be accused of blindless yet.
“I want it!” Sita says. “How happy Mother Kausalya shall be to see it! When we go back in a year or so – oh, how fast time has flown – we will give it to her, and wouldn’t she be pleased? Remember how she adored that mynah you caught for her, brother Lakshmana?”
“Mhmm, I don’t think there is any guarantee that we can catch things without killing them, you know. I don’t think the hare traps will do.”
“Then we can skin it!” Sita says, warming up to the topic. “Whichever way you see it, we will benefit from it.”
Lakshmana hums. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Rama listens as the two bicker, clenching his trembling hand into a fist. His body is weighed down with the exhaustion of repeated grief. It hurts to hear Sita so bright and excited, planning gifts for their return as if it was a given, as if no disaster could strike them now, so close to the end. It hurts to hear Lakshmana’s prophetic words, and to wonder how he could have been so foolish, so utterly dumb, as to not hear the brother who forsook life and limb for him, and to –
“…will go, won’t you?”
It takes him a moment to understand he is being addressed, and another to parse out the question. When he does, he barely holds back a snarl and says coldly, “We should heed Lakshmana. Leave it alone.”
Her lip purses, and her eyes burn, but Sita doesn’t cry as he had feared. Perhaps it had been all Rama’s fault before, the ignorance of his weak, quailing heart. Nothing can happen now.
Sita slips inside, frowning. Rama hates himself for putting that expression there, but it is preferable to months of war and death. He meditates, and Lakshmana snips the wood into shavings, and the forest is calm around them.
At noon, he gets up. Lakshmana has moved on from shaving wood, and is now gathering clothes they hung out to dry. Sita has not yet emerged.
“Sita?” Rama calls. Was she upset? “Sita, where are you?”
The house is silent and empty. The hunting traps Lakshmana made for the hares are missing. Rama’s blood chills, and in spite of himself, he shrieks.
Lakshmana comes running, quiver on his back and knife unsheathed. He takes one look around the empty house and hauls Rama up. “Come,” he commands, and Rama goes.
Please, he begs, as they search, to whoever will listen. Please don’t let Ravana take my Sita away again.
And yet when he finds his wife, he wishes he had not prayed so at all. Sita is cold and unmoving, blood pooling around her. Sita is no more.
2.
Rama drops to his knees and howls.
In the morning, Mareecha – the dog, the beast below all beasts, the clod of dirt that did not bear a place even under Ravana’s ugly shoe – comes to them. He is dressed as he always is, bright, shining gold, barely short of being gaudy, and breathtakingly beautiful.
“Oh look!” Sita calls, like she always does. “Oh, oh, what a handsome deer!”
Lakshmana looks up obediently, as he always does, and his hands still where he is stoking the kitchen fire.
“Huh,” he says. “That can’t be a real deer.”
“Why not?” Sita asks, as taken by the gold as ever, always so keen and eager, as if the loveliness in her sought in that deer a paltry companion.
“Lakshmana is right,” Rama interjects, before it can devolve to the same argument he has heard over and over.
“Oh, but even so, I want it!” Sita says. “How happy Mother Kausalya shall be to see it! When we go back in a year or so – oh, how fast time has flown – we will give it to her, and wouldn’t she be pleased? Remember how she adored that mynah you caught for her, brother Lakshmana?”
“Uh,” he brother says intelligently, torn between agreeing with Sita and paying heed to Rama’s words. “Sure?”
“Will this one not look so fetching in Ayodhya’s gardens? I say– ”
“Lakshmana,” Rama commands, interrupting his wife quite rudely, but unable to bear her excited joy for even a moment more, “Lakshmana, go get that deer. Kill it, we will cure the hide and take it home for mother’s shrine to Shiva.”
Sita starts, but does not protest; she is by nature easily pleased. Rama would feel ashamed for using it so, if he did not know what would happen, and if he did not know he had to prevent it.
Lakshmana rises, picks up his bow, dithers awkwardly for a second where he seems to recognize that Sita had wanted Rama to give it to her, then swallows his opinions and obeys. Rama feels a sudden swell of affection for his poor, sweet brother, so shy and clumsy in such matters, and when he looks over at his wife, she too is smiling.
“You should not tease him so,” she scolds him, when Lakshmana is gone. “You know how he is.”
“He doesn’t mind.”
“Even so,” Sita looks affectionately the way he went. “Poor boy.”
Rama laughs, heart easing. “It’s like you like him more than you like me.”
Sita stands up, puts her nose to the air. She does not take kindly to Rama fishing for compliments. “Fie the woman,” she declares primly, “that picks the husband over the son.”
Rama is amused. “People will disagree, you know.”
There isn’t an answer to that, so Sita hmphs and pokes the fire aggressively. His plate at lunch, Rama reflects, will surely have an interesting taste.
He thinks differently when Lakshmana isn’t back by noon, even though the sun is high in the sky and Sita has laid out their plates.
“Oh, has he not found that thing yet?” Sita asks him, fretfully. “Now I wish I hadn’t asked for it; he will be late for lunch and the food will go cold.”
No sooner has she finished saying this that a horrible, high-pitched scream, so full of surprise and fear it does not seem it could ever belong to his brother, but is, unmistakably Lakshmana’s, trembles through the forest, sending birds flying from trees and rendering the singing cicadas silent.
Rama’s body reacts before he permits it too, but halfway he remembers what his brother had said.
“You have to go,” Sita screams, shaking his arm. “Lakshmana is in danger.”
Rama is unmoving, like a mountain, like stones. “It is the creature,” he says, and does not go.
Lakshmana does not return all night. In the morning, Rama takes Sita by the hand, and they trudge across the leafy forest path, to where the screams came from. There is a clearing, crudely made by a hacking sword. There is Mareecha, spilled across like ground like a broken bird. There is Lakshmana too, silent in death, a familiar gold-fletched arrow at the back of his neck.
3.
There is also Rama now, on his knees, howling.
In the morning, Mareecha – the dog, the beast below all beasts, the clod of dirt that did not bear a place even under Ravana’s ugly shoe – comes to them. He is dressed as he always is, bright, shining gold, barely short of being gaudy, and breathtakingly beautiful.
“Oh look!” Sita calls, like she always does. “Oh, oh, what a handsome deer!”
Lakshmana looks up obediently, as he always does, and his hands still where he is stoking the kitchen fire.
“Huh,” he says. “That can’t be a real deer.”
Rama looks to the deer, to Mareecha, and feels something quail in his chest. He does not allow Sita to ask for it, cannot allow himself to hear her praise that wretched creature.
“It is Mareecha,” he tells them. “He is here to cause us ill.”
His wife and brother look at him with wide eyes – one pair confused, one disbelieving.
“How do you know that?” wonders Lakshmana, frowning. “Wasn’t he meditating or something?”
Rama cannot breathe from the rage that consumes him. “Is it not enough that I know?” he demands. “Must I always answer to you now?”
“Don’t say that,” Sita chides him immediately, suddenly frightened. “Don’t speak to him like that. What happened to you?”
Lakshmana bows his head and doesn’t say anything, because he never speaks over Rama, but he too is surprised and hurt. Rama has never spoken to him in this manner.
(Well, he has, once. But now no one but himself remembers it.)
“Forgive me.” Rama says. A gentleman always acknowledges his mistakes, and Rama will not have those in his care fear him. “Let us not think on it now.”
“Shouldn’t we catch him then?” Sita asks. Rama wonders if it is fate, laughing at him. “You said he has ill intentions.”
“Later.”
“Why later?” Lakshmana demands. Rama wills himself not to snap again. “Last time, they wrecked such havoc and tormented so many sages. Is it not our duty to at least apprehend him?”
“If you leave now,” says Sita, gentler, “you will be back by lunch, I think. We can have the hare you caught yesterday.”
Rama does not hear her entirely – his vision is filled with the sight of him chasing that knife’s edge of gold through the sunlit forest, of watching his brother arrive alone, of coming back to an empty hut. He means to say all of this, but what comes out is, “I will go? And what, leave you alone with him?”
Silence, great and condemning, fills their little house.
Slowly, the words he spoke trickle into Rama’s consciousness. Sita is quaking with barely-controlled rage. Lakshmana is close to tears.
“I didn’t…” Rama begins, “I didn’t mean…”
Lakshmana stands. “I will go,” he says, through what, Rama realizes in muted horror, is a sob held back. “Please stay here.”
Rama wants to reach out, but again, the sight of Lakshmana lying unmoving and dead shakes him to his bones, and instead he says, “No!”
His brother crumples back to his seat.
“What happened to you,” Sita shouts. “Both of you then, begone, kill that beast. No one is good enough without your supervision, are they?!”
Sita, it turns out, can speak well to hurt. Then again, with the mess Rama has caused, can he blame her?
“All of us will go.”
Mareecha is still there when his wife and brother follow him out, glittering between the trees like a fragment of dawn.
Rama knows it is wrong.
He has known it a hundred times before.
“Stay close,” he tells Sita and Lakshmana, anyway, though he knows bone-deep that it is futile. They run, fleet-footed and swift, following the deer.
However, it does not go in circles as before – Rama has played fate too dangerously. He senses the arrow before he hears it whistle, and foolishly, knowing Ravana’s desire for Sita, leaps to guard her.
There is a prickle at the back of his neck. Sita screams. Lakshmana shouts. The forest floor, wet and alive, comes up to meet him. His heart thumps, measuring his failures beat by beat.
One, Sita pulls the dagger from his waist. Two, his hands reach for her, and meet only air. Three, she sinks beside him, curling into him like they do in the cold nights, her blood hot on her cool skin.
+1.
Lakshmana, shouting and screaming, is still standing over them. His poor, loyal brother, still swinging his sword over the enemy closing in, only to delay Ravana the indignity of their remains. Rama does not see him fall over them, shielding till the very end. Rama does not hear Surpanakha’s mocking laughter, or Ravana’s tantrum at not having Sita. The last he knows is his wife, who chose ash over captivity, and his brother, still standing, still fighting.
In the morning, Mareecha – the dog, the beast below all beasts, the clod of dirt that did not bear a place even under Ravana’s ugly shoe – comes to them. He is dressed as he always is, bright, shining gold, barely short of being gaudy, and breathtakingly beautiful.
“Oh look!” Sita calls, like she always does. “Oh, oh, what a handsome deer!”
Lakshmana looks up obediently, as he always does, and his hands still where he is stoking the kitchen fire.
“Huh,” he says. “That can’t be a real deer.”
“Why not?” Sita asks, eyes bright with joy.
Rama listens to them quietly. It will be a long time before they are like this again – just the three of them, gently laughing and teasing, no war or grief or misery between them. It will be a long time before he hears the cadence of Sita’s voice, clear as the rushing river, stir the world around him. Rama watches them, and keeps that image in his heart, for all the long years ahead.
When Sita asks him for the deer, he leaves without protest.
As always, Lakshmana comes for him alone. When they return, the cottage is empty. Rama sinks to his knees and weeps, relieved. Lakshmana kneels by him, fruitlessly consoling and apologising, but he need not have bothered. Rama has learnt to count his blessings; at least, they are all alive.
His son is tall and broad-chested, hardened from years under Ahi-Ravana.
His son is sweet and slightly shy, watching with star-struck eyes as Hanuman bids him goodbye.
"Where are you going?" he asks like a child, even though he is a man grown, and as powerful as twenty others.
"There is a war," Hanuman explains, because he can, because his son is his, and never in his life had Hanuman thought to receive a joy so profound and all-encompassing. "The evil Ravana, king of Lanka, has taken by force Shri Rama's wife. We must rescue her."
Makardhwaja clings to him. "When will you be back?"
Hanuman places his broad, calloused palm on his son's curly head. His heart is close to bursting. "Soon," he says, "very soon."
As they leave, the brothers from Ayodhya look at him, their eyes knowing.
.
.
.
Custom dictates the first phase of a man's life to be one of abstinence and purity. He must not look a maiden in the eye, he must not charm them, covet them, or steal them. The scriptures, which lay down laws for all aspects of life, are clear on this.
Society, riddled by humanity, is less clear. There are thousands of men from the top of the mountains to the sunlit sea, with hundreds of cultures and ways of life. Some follow the customs wholly, some by parts, and some not at all.
Hanuman, divinely gifted son, was expected to follow all of them.
And so Hanuman did.
He hardly sought what his peers did, and when the time came to do as custom bid, to carry the blood of his forefathers onwards and forwards, he gently let down the eager daughters of courtiers, and forsook life to take the name of his lord.
He has not regretted it since.
(Except that—
The younglings of Sugriva are as dear to him as his own, and yet Hanuman yearns and wants and yearns and wants, for that one joy that render even kings and queens slave to their mercy, that brought Dasaratha to the sacrificial pyre and Janak to the empty field.
The mercy of Rama is supreme. He has known what Hanuman has not said, has given unto him what he could never have himself.
Hanuman is grateful.)
"Tell me about your mother," he asks his son.
Makardhwaja frowns thoughtfully. "I don't know where she is," he says, which is not what Hanuman asked, but wanted to ask anyway. "Ahi-Ravana came to take me when I was very young. Mother says, uh, a drop of sweat from you gave her me."
Hanuman worries for this poor woman. Crocodile. Whatever. His son's memory of his childhood is woefully patchy, muddled further by Ahi-Ravana's influence. Hanuman has no doubt this is some foolish story concocted by the poor mother to sate her babe's curiosity.
Then again, Hanuman has no memory of any woman whatsoever. He does not think he could do that, even if he imbibed like Sugriva, which he never did. And yet the son is most certainly his, by all known laws of men and gods, and if that weren't enough proof, the curve of Makardhwaja's face, so similar to Mother Anjana's, would be.
(He has also very recently borne witness to an actual crocodile turning into an apsara, so his threshold of disbelief is higher that it should be.)
"What will you do now?" he asks Makardhwaja. "I will go to Ayodhya, and it would please me if you came too."
Makardhwaja does not reply at once. His eyes are sightlessly set on the distance. "Do you think I should look for mother?"
"Yes," says Hanuman at once. He is his mother's son, and so is Makardhwaja, and Hanuman will not have him be dismayed. "I will help you."
"Do you remember her?"
"...no."
Makardhwaja does not get angry. He only smiles, slightly lost. Hanuman takes his hand in both of his own, and pulls them together in a hug.
His son wraps his great arms around him, and Hanuman is, once again, grateful.
Tagging @sundaralekhan (please ignore if this comes in too late)
Afterwards, Karna will remember this moment, and this moment only – and remember nothing but this – the moment Eklavya leaves.
There is something in Dronacharya’s eyes, something hard and soft all at once, like fired clay and glass and ice. If he touched it the wrong way, Karna thinks, it would shatter into pieces, scattering all around the world, destroyed.
Arjuna is shaking, fine tremors of relief running up and down his spine. What would it have done to him, Karna wonders, if Ekalavya did cut off his thumb, if he truly saw how far their teacher would go to elevate him? Then again, knowing Arjuna, it would only fuel him and his determination to be best. Karna, after all, would do the same; such sacrifices can hardly be allowed to go in vain.
(It is a lie Karna tells himself. He remembers another moment also, when Ekalavya finds him outside his house, and drags him to a shadowed nook. He remembers the feel of those bow-calloused fingertips on his arm, and the thrill that overtook him when Ekalavya spilled his daring plan.)
Karna remembers neither the packing nor the running away. He does not even remember to bid his friend Duryodhana goodbye, even though the little rascal is something too like a little brother, and when he does he tells himself it does not matter. When he will return, he will be a bowman to rival Arjuna, and when war comes – as it will, for the winds of the kingdom have deemed it as inevitable as the coming of terrible summer after spring – he will be there, if not to help him win, then at least to die for him.
“What are you thinking?” Eklavya asks, as they trudge along the dusty road. “You are distracted; there are bandits along these paths.”
“When we return,” Karna says, “what will you do?”
Eklavya snorts. He has, Karna reflects to himself, a very rustic snort; as open as the broad sky, as refreshing after Duryodhana and his politics as water is to a thirsty man. “Shall we return? They say the guru Parashurama is great and terrible, that he likes no one but brahmanas, that he has taught only one kshatriya in his whole life and will teach no other.”
“Eh,” Karna scowls at him, “why are you so pessimistic?”
“Why are you so optimistic? Well, I will humour you, good friend, for you have joined this perilious journey with me. When I come back, I will take over for my father, and lead my clansmen. And you?”
Karna sighs. The horizon stretches long and open before him, the road rising up to meet his steps. He thinks of the shining armour of the imperial guards, the host of bows and quivers in the Kuru armoury that Duryodhana had shown him. He thinks of his father, loyal to the son of Ganga, and thinks again of himself. It is not hard to put a voice to his hopes. “Perhaps I can serve Duryodhana.” Ekalavya lets out his full-bellied laugh, jokes about Karna wearing two sets of armour. It is a lovely day, in spite of the mind-numbing heat, and Ekalavya has all his fingers, and Karna has all his hopes. His chest is full of warmth and friendship, and he is happy.
@sundaralekhan Don't cry, here's some femdom bheem/draupadi!!
Hers
Some notes under the cut
This is the reference, and my vision for this piece was mainly, "now imagine this but in original era where she has all the married woman iconography- rings, alta, toe rings, bangles etc. which would create the delicious contrast of the jewellery showing she is his but the pose, the body language, everything else denotes he is hers. She's the posessive one. She's holding her dagger, her foot is on top of him and on top of that, he's kneeling, rendering him completely defenseless."
More details on the jewellery: Her wedding ring has Sapphire because that is a gem I heavily associate with the Panchalfam. Since her ring finger is not visible you don't see it but I did try to incorporate some blue in there.
I followed classical rules of "gold above the waist silver below the waist" here but idk how that worked out.
The bangles are like a traditional maharashtrian stack with tode/green bangles/patlya because fuck you I do what I want.
I accidentally deleted this ENTIRE DRAWING yesterday and what you see is coloured off of a screenshot. forgive me if the alta is too opaque.
Y'all can see the point where i'm just. DONE lmao. I wanted to shade this and show it was during like. nighttime so so badly but it was 11 pm when I finished this and I had practice the next day. And a conference.
I reallly realllllly plan to redraw this in the future!!
@sundaralekhan Day 6 + Day 7: Pride + Creator's Choice
Combinging my free day with the Day 6 prompt. Anyone who has interacted with my content in the past year would probably already get why.
For the last prompt, I'm choosing to highlight Uddhav Sandesh by Surdas and the subculture and plethora of works it inspired. This scene is specifically based on Uddhav Shatak by Jagannath Das Ratnakar — an anthology of 100+ couplets in Braj Bhasha from 1874 about Uddhav's journey from Mathura to Braj with Krishna's letters to his parents, Radha, and the gopis.
Illustration is based on specifically these couplets by Ratnakar, after Uddhav's return from Braj:
ब्रज-रजरंजित सरीर सुभ ऊधव कौ
धाइ बलबीर ह्वै अधीर लपटाए लेत ।
कहै रतनाकर सु प्रेम-मद-माते हेरि
थरकति बाँह थामि थहरि थिराए लेत ॥
कीरति-कुमारी के दरस-रस सद्य ही की
छलकनि चाहि पलकनि पुलकाए लेत ।
परन न देत एक बूँद पुहुमी की कौंछि
पौंछि-पौंछि पट निज नैननि लगाए लेत ॥
(Rough) Translation :
Bathed in the rajas (guna) of Braj Uddhav's body becomes pious. Krishna embraces him impatiently. Says Ratnakar look at the one intoxicated with love, shaking arms are held (by Krishna) and (Uddhav) is steadied. Seeing the glorious maidens (Uddhav's) eyes wish to shed (tears of) joy. (Krishna) doesn't let one drop fall to the earth, (he) dabs (Uddhav's tears) and applies them to his own eyes.
Surdas' Uddhav Sandesh details the very same trip, Uddhav's travel from Mathura to Braj with letters for Yashoda, Nanda, Radha, and the gopis from a very distraught Krishna worried about their well being and their pain of separation from him. Uddhav questions their sadness, proposes they part with their despair born from 'worldly love' and instead meditate on the formless Supreme Being, since Krishna is very much that. However, his preaching of devotional love does not please or satiate the gopis who just want their Kanha back and they end up changing Uddhav's mind, gaining his empathy.
This episode can be and has been written with varying takes. In Ratnakar's work, Krishna and Uddhav are more touchy feely than they are in the Surdas version, which largely uses heavy symbolism and metaphor for the pairing (eg: Krishna is the lotus and Uddhav is the bee who will get stuck in the mud the lotus is growing in just to have a chance at the nectar.) However, in all versions, Krishna's polyamory and Uddhav's unconventional takes on love, and Uddhav-Gopi banter concluding in 'all love is valid' are constant. You cannot split the queer undercurrent from the narrative. Note that Surdas wrote his work in the 15th-16th century. Ratnakar is one of the last ones to write a retelling of the work in 19th century. Separated by about 400 years, Uddhav Sandesh and its derivatives are filled with a legacy of continued acceptance of love in all forms and going beyond devotional love for the 'god' that's right there regardless of gender or identity. This, to me, as a queer South Asian, is a matter of Pride and echoes 'we're here, we're queer'.
Sammata-Rathantari - Sundaralekhan Day 4 - Rarepairs
Dushyanta's parentage is disputed, with most sources disagreeing wildly. However, the two names that come up most consistently as his mother are Sammata and Rathantari.
Sammata is the daughter of Marutta, the last Turvasu king who ruled Vaishali. She is given away to the rishi Samvarta as a slave by her father after he performs a yajna to obtain a son. Samvarta takes pity on her and allows her to get married to a kingdom-less Paurava man (usually identified as Ilina). Together, they move away to the region that would later become Hastinapura. Marutta, however, tracks Sammata and Ilina down and takes away the newborn Dushyanta to bring him up as his own son.
Dushyanta, unfortunately, grows up to think poorly of his mother and pretty much erases her from his life, but he proudly claims his father's heritage as he combines the areas of Vaishali and later-day Hastinapura to create his own kingdom, chasing away the Yadava-Haihaya-Ikshvaku alliance.
Rathantari, on the other hand, seems to have a more uncomplicated history and is credited more consistently as Dushyanta's mother.
For today's post, I imagine Rathantari and Sammata developing a relationship after both of them marry Ilina, and supporting each other through the ups and downs of what seems like a somewhat modest life.
This time around, I'm posing a secondary theme for my Sundaralekhan works — Arts. In the coming week, I'll be posting art for Sundaralekhan prompts in the form of studies of various art forms that revolve around Hindu mythology.
Taking this chance to highlight the Jagannath Mythology. Whether you call it an offshoot of Krishna lore, Vaishnavite subculture, or both Krishna and Vishnu lores getting influenced by stories and mythology of the Puri area, Jagannath mythology has it's own flavour to it and it's own little stories you won't find anywhere else and make only sense for the coastal town of Puri.
Featured are illustrations inspired by Anasara Paintings, which take the place of the triad in the temple when the three are away on Rath Yatra.
My favourite story from the Jagannath mythology is the tale of Mausi Maa. She gave shelter to Jagannath and Balabhadra when they were very poor. You may think when did that happen to Krishna and Balaram and when did they ever travel that far south to this little shrine in Puri? But that's the point of an AU! Vrindavan may be a model for Jagannath/Krishna lore, but Jagannath squarely belongs in Puri and the mythology worldbuilds itself around Odia locales and traditions. You can read more about Jagannath's unique family here.
I studied one of the Anasara Paintings from the book In the Absence of Jagannatha by Eberhard Fischer and Dinanath Pathy. Reference painting and details under the cut.
This is the "Puri matha triptych of 1998".
Caption from the book:
This was photographed in Puri in 2000, where it was found
hanging on a wall of one of the religious establishments. Textiles were fixed at the waist of the images, as is often the
case with icons in shrines. The flaking on the torsos of the
painted icons indicates that they had been worshipped previously
I kept the cloth and took some liberties in filling out portions of the torso lost to flaking.
Ever wonder what mahabharat would be like if everything was the same but krishna was a t-rex? No? Well, meet krishnasaurus rex anyway.
@sundaralekhan day 5: AU (late post 🫠)
I have no explanation to why I did this but rant/lore:
The galaxy brain writing on the banner, "Yada yada hi dharmasya glanirbhavati bharatah / I come as a dinosaur to stomp for funsies" was suggested by @cyndaquillt . Imagine the scene is the maushal parva, he got tired of the yadavas fighting and ate them all :/
@somnoire-ww helped with dinosaur anatomy
The morpankhs are duct taped to his head. He has multiple feathers for proportion because he's Huge. He can't tape them himself with his tiny arms so he whines and refuses to get anything done until someone else does it for him
He has the same personality as canon krishna but can't speak in human tongue. He only roars and people close to him understand him like rocket raccoon with groot. I want subhadra to be the best at understanding him for no reason
"we have 11 akshauhinis" "we have a t-rex"
On that note, obviously he's 'horse' instead of sarathi here. They probably got a custom chariot made for him to pull. Arjun is about to be yeeted off.
My mom told me to give him a flute for vibes, so that's why he has a flute in the one with yashoda even though he can't actually play it.
@sundaralekhan this is Part 834749 of pushing my "The Entire Panchalfam is Queer" agenda...
Drupad is very much bi, so he gets a bi flag moodboard!
Shikhandi is transmasc, I don't think I gotta say it any more clearly.
I decided to go with the Gilbert Baker flag for Uttamajas..
Satyajit in the colours of the sunset aroace flag!
Dhrishtadyumna in colours of the Agender pride flag, since I headcanon them as not really having a sense of gender like humans do by virtue of being deliberately being created as a weapon to slay drona rather than a human kid.
“Sairandhri,” Sudeshna calls. “Sairandhri, come help me with my hair.”
Sairandhri comes. She is not smiling, because Sairandhri rarely smiles, and Sudeshna is not pleased.
“When will your husband come?” she asks, because she can, because it makes her Sairandhri flinch, like a wild animal curling into a ball, trying to hide a soft underbelly.
“Husbands,” Sairandhri corrects her. “I cannot say, my lady. Perhaps in another year.
Because it feels good to think her husbands will not come back.
“You should stay here till then,” Sudeshna offers generously. She looks over her lady-in-waiting, with her great dark eyes like lotus petals, and the loveliness of a face indescribable by human words. “It is not safe for someone as beautiful as you to wander unprotected.”
Sairandhri hums noncommittally, and answers not.
2.
“Sairandhri,” Sudeshna calls. “Sairandhri, come help me with my hair.”
Sairandhri comes in quietly, bows. The combs are laid neatly on the dressing table, her boudoir is empty. Sairandhri has to reach around her to get them; and as she bends over, Sudeshna notes, “You seem like you are rather unused to bowing.”
The slim, dark hand over the comb stills only for a moment, but it does, and it does not escape Sudeshna’s eyes.
“Forgive me, my queen,” Sairandhri says. “If you wish to educate me in courtly manners, I will be honoured to be your pupil and learn.”
“You have such refined speech; I do not think I have much that I can teach you.”
“My queen is in a flattering mood.” Sairandhri bows her head. The fingers threading through Sudeshna’s hair tremble.
Who are you? she wonders. You are too lovely to be a lowly maid.
“Who are you?” Sudeshna asks out loud.
“Your lady-in-waiting, my queen,” says Sairandhri, and speaks no more.
3.
“Sairandhri,” Sudeshna calls. “Sairandhri, come help me with my hair.”
Sairandhri comes to her in tears. They streak from her lotus eyes to her dimpled cheeks, dripping from the edge of a sweet, curved jaw. Her lips tremble, her long-fingered hands wring each other.
“Sairandhri?” Sudeshna asks, “what is wrong?”
Sairandhri hiccups, a strangely endearing thing. Then she says, “My queen, your brother– ”
Sudeshna does not hear the rest. She is seized with an anger so great it takes the sight from her eyes and renders her mute and deaf. Kichak! And he had picked her Sairandhri! Were there no other girls in the palace? How did he even see her?
“I told you not to roam around,” she finds herself saying, harsh and stern. “Sairandhri, how could you be so careless.”
“He says I must go to him,” Sairandhri weeps. “He says I mustn’t say no!”
Sudeshna’s heart burns with rage and betrayal. “Then go,” she orders coldly. “It is best not to resist. If you are obedient, he will be kind.”
Sairandhri lets out a howling sob and runs away. Sudeshna’s hair sits undone.
+1.
“Sairandhri,” Sudeshna calls. “Sairandhri, come help me with my hair.”
Sairandhri comes, and she is almost smiling. Did it truly go so well with her brother?
Something hot and sour burns in her chest. Sudeshna does not pry for details. In a way, perhaps this too is kindness.
Halfway through, another maid rushes in, panting. “My queen!” she exclaims, and hitches in a desperate breath.
“What is it?” she demands unhappily. Will no one let her and Sairandhri have some peace?
“Outside my queen!” the maid mutters nonsensically. “Your brother– my queen– !”
Sudeshna runs all the way to his chambers, forsaking custom and propriety. Sairandhri, she is pleased to see, comes along.
Kichak is lying on the balcony, under the open sky, irreversibly dead.
“Who could have done this?” her useless husband wails. “Oh! Oh! What misfortune!”
There is quite a crowd gathered around. Sudeshna turns to her lady-in-waiting. “Sairandhri, is this the work of your husbands?”
Sairandhri says nothing. She does not need to, her smile says it all.
0.
(“My husband has many sons,” Empress Draupadi tells her. “And you have a daughter so enraptured by my husband her father seeks to marry her off.”
Sudeshna looks up at her, unable to believe what she is being offered. And yet motherhood calls her to defend Uttaraa’s honour.
“It is not like that,” Sudeshna protests. “She is only a girl, and fond of her teacher.”
Empress Draupadi laughs, loud and clear as a bell. “I know,” she agrees. “Her and Abhimanyu, they are already pleased to see each other. They will suit.”
“…yes.” Sudeshna looks at her again and again. Even in her royal attire, she is the same Sairandhri Sudeshna has known for over a year.
Empress Draupadi catches her glances with something close to exhausted pity. She looks about quietly, and then tilts her head to Sudeshna’s boudoir. “Will you do my hair?”
Her hair is already done up, pinned and veiled and scented with oils. Sudeshna’s hands sweat; she nods anyway.
They arrange themselves in a strange reversal of roles, Sairandhri seated by the dressing table, Sudeshna standing behind her. There is a sick thrill of shame cutting through her, but even that shame is sweet, and stains the back of her tongue.
“Well?” Sairandhri asks gently, mercifully, and Sudeshna puts her hands on her warm, soft hair.)
Subhadra’s arrival to Khandava was an unquiet one. Arjuna, bedraggled and miserable, had left her to trail after his incandescent wife, and her new mother-in-law now raked a hard gaze all across her ruined wedding robes down to her muddy hems. She wanted to tell her to censure her own son, but the night was young, and she was to stay here all her life, and it did not bode well for newlywed women to quarrel with the matriarch of their husband’s house.
“Come in, sister,” said Sahadeva, emerging from the darkness. He alone of all the brothers was calm, and he alone seemed to have foreseen such circumstances. “Has anyone come with you?”
Subhadra’s throat threatened to close up once more. Her parents had spent weeks and months preparing her retinue, finding for her the cleverest young girls, the kindest hand-maidens, and the wisest of midwives just in case. Sister Jambavati had brought for her two women from her own father’s home, who she reassured everyone would guard Subhadra with their lives. They were none of them with her now. Surely, they would come later, but in the meantime she was all alone, in a strange home, surrounded by strangers, waiting for strange customs to master her. She should have answered her brother-in-law, but she had taken too long, and the moment was past.
“No matter,” said Sahadeva, smiling kindly at her. “I will send for a maid; she is newly-appointed and would suit. Mother, shall we not invite her in? It is already so late.”
Kunti – no, Mother – stirred. Her upset did not disappear, but her frown softened. “Someone should have stopped them. Dushala is not here, but this household does not lack women. It is auspicious to interrogate a man who brings in a bride. And she should kick over a pot, walk into milk and vermillion – a marriage does not lack rituals.”
“Arjuna is already gone,” Bheema pointed out.
Mother Kunti sighed. “That boy! Very well then, come in, come in. We shall see about this tomorrow. Yudhisthira, send for the esteemed priest Dhaumya in the morning. This will have to be dealt with. Come, daughter, I will show you your rooms.”
Subhadra did not hear what the Emperor said. Mother Kunti had already turned and started walking, and she hastened after to follow in her bulky robes, half afraid of losing her way. Her eyes burned. The palace of Khandava opened up around her, dark and foreboding, larger and colder than her own home by the sunlit sea, unwelcoming of the intruder. The verdant forest, so sweet scented in the morning, now loomed over the horizon, hungry and animalistic.
Mother Kunti stopped beside a wide hallway and spun so suddenly that Subhadra, half running to keep up, nearly crashed into her. She said nothing, but her lips thinned, and again, Subhadra had to swallow back the lump in her throat. Their shadows danced on the walls; the chandelier above tinkled in the breeze.
“Have you had your wedding night?” Kunti asked her.
Baffled, Subhadra blinked at her. “What?”
Mother Kunti regarded her closely. Subhadra waited for shame or shyness to overcome her, but none came. “I said: have you had your wedding night?”
“We weren’t– the wedding hasn’t been completed yet. He spoke to my elders and straightaway brought us here.” Subhadra paused, then belatedly tacked on, “Mother.”
Mother Kunti frowned. Again, Subhadra waited for the sight of it to disturb her, for her heart to quail in her chest. Nothing happened. Her mother-in-law looked unhappily to the side, then seemingly came to a decision.
“I will speak to Arjuna,” she declared. “Meanwhile, the rooms in the east wing are still unoccupied. They will do well with a mistress.”
Why the east wing? Subhadra wanted to ask. Why not the inner women’s chambers? How far will I be from the others? Shall I have anyone nearby to call in my need?
But Subhadra was naturally shy – a quality valued in maidens, and one that seemed an insurmountable horror to her now. She had no recourse but to do as Mother Kunti instructed, following behind her like an abandoned duckling, deep into her new world.
The rooms she was installed into were large and luxurious, well-appointed and faultlessly furnished. Gold gleamed off the ornamental showpieces, each too expensive to have kept in unused rooms back at home. There was a painting in the wall of a broad river, done in a style similar to that of the Naga tribe. Even the candles in the chandelier reeked of incense and sandalwood. Once she was left alone, Subhadra sank into the soft bed and gave herself a moment to think. The silken sheets protested the silk of her dress, trying to make her slip. It took effort to gather her thoughts. She had heard, of course, of her aunt who married the Kuru Emperor, even if she had no memory of meeting her. She had heard too, of her five illustrious sons, and of their fire-born wife.
Yes, Draupadi. How much of a problem would she be? Sahadeva had offered her a newly hired maid; Kunti had put her away from the inner chambers where Draupadi must live. Why?
It was not unheard of for kings and princes to take more than one wife – indeed, it was so common that Subhadra felt at times perhaps Rama and his brothers in the Treta Yuga were the last ones to do so otherwise – and it was not unheard of for wives to be jealous of each other, to vie for the attentions of king and crown for their kingdoms and themselves. Subhadra wished she could tell her co-wife that there was no need for such caution; Subhadra did not know who she would have chosen, but it would not have been Arjuna.
Her mother and her aunt, both married off without a Swayamvara, had pressed her father with great insistence to arrange one for her. It was customary to honour the bride’s choice; it was practical, however, to choose beforehand, for kings needed allies and newlyweds the knowledge of their marital home. Subhadra’s elders had guided her expansively, had sent spies ahead to listen and learn, and told her after, to choose the “second prince on her right”.
Who had it been? Arjuna’s penance was well-known, he would hardly have been invited. She had not been curious before, having chosen a handful from the portraits of her suitors, and anticipating the pleasant surprise of knowing the one she would hold dearest to her heart and announcing it before the whole world. Now though, she wondered about that faceless groom who would never be, before she caught herself thinking of another man so soon after her marriage, and willed her mind to more pressing matters.
Such as her present situation.
Sahadeva had assigned her a newly hired maid, Kunti had relegated her to the guesthouses. Was it to guard against the angry Draupadi, who might have all the womenfolk under her obedient command, or was it out of distrust for a foreign woman? Surely, surely, they did not think that–
A single knock sounded on the door. Well, the maid had certainly taken her sweet time.
“Come in,” Subhadra called, gathering her things in hopes of undressing finally.
“I– ” began a voice that distinctly did not belong to a maid, and then, “Aaaahhhh!!!!”
Subhadra turned to see Arjuna at the threshold.
“You are alone!” her husband-to-be nigh wailed. “Mother will kill me!”
Subhadra did not quite understand the problem. Had they not been alone in each other’s company all this while? On the road too, and often away from civilization. She had been scared only initially, before it turned out that her husband was less a man and more an excitable child, and before Arjuna revealed himself to be a rakishly wicked thing.
“I do not mind,” she informed him simply. “Is there something you need?”
“Panchali is angry,” said Arjuna.
Well, Subhadra thought wryly, if I was your wife and you left me because you saw me compromised, and then came home with a new bride, I would too.
It probably did not help that Draupadi’s marriage had significantly uplifted her husbands’ position, materially and politically. To reward such contribution by wedding another so soon was the kind of intolerable snub matched only by insulting a woman’s natal home.
She spoke none of that, of course. One did not encourage competition in a royal household, and one did not endear a co-wife to one’s husband; especially when aforementioned co-wife showed signs of hostility. She waited quietly and demurely for her husband’s judgement.
Arjuna’s eyes skittered away from her own. “Do you think, maybe, you can talk to her?” he mumbled under his nose, as if that would stop the words from being heard. “Maybe not dressed so lavishly… we don’t want her to feel threatened.”
Shouldn’t you have thought of that before, Subhadra wondered bitterly. She had no great talent for politics, and never in her life had she asked for more than a loving husband and enough children to fill the halls of her quarters. And yet, as Arjuna spoke, a stubborn, headstrong part of her rose in rebellion; why should Draupadi not feel threatened?
Subhadra willed herself to be calm; anger was, after all, temporary madness. Even so, she misliked Arjuna’s ideas, and liked her situation even less. She could not claim familiarity, but a handful of days on the road had made her believe that Arjuna would not shy away from a challenge. Now, her husband-to- be was as unfamiliar to her as the dark underside of a leaf was to the morning sun. How could a man, who had dared to steal her from the heart of her kingdom, not be able to stand up against his own wife? Or was that bravery all from Krishna’s encouragement; Krishna, who had helped plan her swayamvara, who had laughed at her naïve, maidenly excitement, who had known the happiness of their friends and family and still chosen a man seeking penance to–
Stop. Subhadra shuddered. She could not doubt her own brother. If he had decided this, then it was for her own good. Soon, she would know the joy of belonging to a family as vast as her own; soon, she would have children to adore and love; soon, she would meld among the Pandavas as if she always belonged and would remain for eternity; and to do that, she would have to win over Draupadi.
“I will do it.”
Arjuna smiled. “Thank you, Bhadre. I will take my leave now. Good night.”
Was that all? She watched him leave with something dangerously close to disappointment. Was it mean minded on her part to enjoy that her groom-to-be had called her by her name, and her co-wife by the kingdom she came from and would never go back to? Forcing herself to turn to bed, cold and alone and still in her most inconvenient attire, without even a moth for company in that dull, dreadful night, Subhadra could not bring herself to care.
In the morning, the sun shone brightly on her face, and her maid finally came knocking around, holding a washbasin and new clothes. She was a reserved young creature, barely out of girlhood, with narrow eyes and a small, mean mouth; where she brushed Subhadra’s dense black hair, her hands were soft and gentle. To the cautiously prying questions of her mistress, she noted anew that she was recently appointed, that she all she knew of Draupadi was by word of mouth alone, that the Empress was involved in court, and beloved and scorned in equal measure.
“Why scorned?”
“They do not like her marriage,” said the maid, and carefully wrapped a necklace around her throat. “All done, my lady.”
Subhadra nodded. “Thank you. I think I shall speak to the Empress now.”
Halfway across the palace (which seemed significantly less intimidating by daylight), they were accosted by a well-dressed man with salt-pepper hair and a look on his face that suggested mortal peril. He was clutching a lump of dull cloth to his chest, and quaking in his boots.
“Your Highness,” he squeaked, and promptly fell silent.
Subhadra sighed, her good mood soured. “Give them here,” she ordered, and snatching them out of the poor man’s arms, strutted imperiously to the nearest empty room.
Her new maid followed expressionlessly. By noon, Subhadra was certain, this would be the gossip of town.
.
.
.
“Was this his idea?” Draupadi asked without preamble as she let Subhadra into her quarters. Then she peered at her maid and asked with something not quite surprise, “Oh. Who’s this?”
Subhadra answered evasively. “I was sent someone to help with my clothes.”
“Hmm. She’s new. I usually know everyone around here. Well, no matter. Sit, sit!”
They sat. Her maid slipped away to help another girl get refreshments. Subhadra studied the woman in front of her.
Draupadi was as dark as the goddess Kali, and as beautiful as a night with no moon. Her hair, like Krishna’s, was so black it was almost blue, and her eyes, large and shapely, tapered at the ends like lotus petals. A soft, intoxicating scent came off of her, as unfamiliar as foreign perfume, the kind of aphrodisiac that could drive a strong man mad. She had about her an air of quiet confidence, rare even among high-born women, of someone who was knowledgeable and wise, and knew it.
Subhadra was at once aware that it would be fruitless to argue with this half-divine creature. One did not argue with fire or its children, no matter that the child had been born fully-formed, yet not seeing half as many years on earth as Subhadra herself.
“Didi,” she said humbly (no need to argue about ages here), “this was indeed the idea of our husband, but I agree with it. You are my elder and better. I have come to adore Mother Kunti’s youngest son, and I hope to remain among him and his as long as you will have me. Last night, I heard of you, and yet I did not dare be so audacious as to demand an audience so soon. Forgive me this once, please.”
There, Subhadra congratulated herself. Nice and simple – an apology for not worshipping the principal wife, foremost deity of the house; an acknowledgement of Draupadi being above her in station; and an open declaration of her wish to have a new family.
Then Draupadi said, “Of course you agree with him; you would agree with everything he said, wouldn’t you?”
Subhadra stared, stumped. These petty arguments could not be the words of a great scholar! With great difficulty, she got out, “Of course not. I hope to be fair and righteous. In that, I follow my husband and my lord, and hope I can steer him well should he falter.”
“Oh, ‘steer him well?’ Steer him from what?”
Dear heavens! Subhadra was not built for such things! She held her tongue as long as it took the maid to place tall glasses of juice between them, and then blurted out, “Didi! I don’t know what it is I said – perhaps I have offended or overstepped – but please believe me when I say I desire nothing from the halls of power. I do not wish you harm, and I never would. He brought me here!”
“He did, didn’t he?”
Draupadi turned away. Subhadra studied the downward curves of her lips, the bitter unhappiness in those beautiful eyes. This was not a queen fighting to keep her throne among many competitors; this was just a heartbroken young woman, newer to the world than even she was.
Compassion welled in her heart, and before she could think better of it, she had leaned forward and grasped Draupadi’s hand in both of hers. For a daughter of the fire, her skin was soft and pleasantly cool. Subhadra squeezed it, and the gentleness seemed to travel from her hand all the way to her face, which too softened, and turned almost melancholic.
“Have you your wedding clothes?” Draupadi asked.
“I was wearing them before,” Subhadra admitted sheepishly.
Draupadi stood up. “I will help,” she said, and Subhadra knew.
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.
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Afterwards, when the festivities were over, and Arjuna was being teased by his brothers, Subhadra sat quietly among the women of the house and pondered Draupadi’s fate. Naturally, Subhadra did not have the contentious fate of having five husbands – such a situation was sure to breed occasional distress in conjugal life – and yet, what did Subhadra have, that Draupadi did not?
She knew herself to be beautiful and shy, soft-spoken and mild-mannered, but outside of their morning interaction, so too was Draupadi, and several times better than her. Subhadra knew her letters and had read many books, but something suggested that Draupadi was more rigorously trained. Even Kunti seemed fond of Draupadi – now they came to her together, and sat by her side.
“They have spotted the Yadavas from the watchtowers,” Kunti informed her, patting her head as Subhadra greeted her mother-in-law. “How are you settling in?”
“Very well, Mother,” she assured, even though there had been no word of changing her quarters to live in her husband’s household or among the women. A sensible woman did not question the husband’s mother on their marriage day.
“She should stay with us,” Draupadi insisted. “Mother, you cannot send her so far away.”
Why? So you can spy on me?
But no, Draupadi appeared genuinely eager. Mother Kunti gave them warm, maternal smiles, and went off to make arrangements, waving away Draupadi’s insistent offers of help.
After she was gone, Draupadi leaned forward to take Subhadra’s hand in her own, a mirror of their morning. Perhaps some of her apprehension showed on her face, for the Empress smiled and blessed her. “May you be the mother of heroes. May you be the foremother of kings.”
A foremother of a king was not usually the direct mother; such a blessing might have been taken differently. But it was evident Draupadi did not mean it so, and Subhadra refused to hold it against her.
In the distance, Arjuna caught her eye, laughing, and slowly she found she had forgotten her earlier upset at the man. Subhadra was in a stranger’s home, a stranger so handsome it would have been a delight to meet him in any other part of the world. So what if one day Arjuna wedded another girl? Subhadra was content with what she had now, and it was enough.
This time around, I'm posing a secondary theme for my Sundaralekhan works — Arts. In the coming week, I'll be posting art for Sundaralekhan prompts in the form of studies of various art forms that revolve around Hindu mythology.
A traditional Manipuri Basanta Raas choreography involves three characters - Radha, Krishna, and Sakhi. A minimum of two Sakhis are a must for the composition. The Basanta Raas begins with Krishna hiding and Radha searching for him with her Sakhis. Then Krishna rejoins, and the Radhakrishna pairing takes the central stage, as the sakhi who helped Radha through her times without Krishna takes a backstage.
But what about a Radha x Sakhi pairing? It's such an interesting dynamic to think of in the context of this traditional Manipuri choreography. Each time, the Sakhi must support Radha and then simply yearn for her and support Radha being with Krishna and be pushed to the periphery. Are the Sakhi's feeling onesided? Or is Radha as polyamorous as Krishna? Does Radha not notice the Sakhi at all Much to think about!
For those not familiar with Manipuri, Radha wears a red blouse and green poloi (on the left of this image) and the Sakhi wears a green blouse and red poloi (on the right of this image). Their colours complement each other!
Shaivya Jyamagha - Sundaralekhan - Day 3 - Women-centric Romance
Jyamagha was the youngest in the Yadava line, and so, driven away by his older brothers, he left home with his wife Chitra-Shaivya in search of his own fortune. Despite offers, Jyamagha never married again and was reportedly very besotted with Shaivya (except that one time later, but that's a different story, and I am ignoring it).
Together, they build a new city on the banks of Narmada and name it Mrittikavati. When their kingdom grows, they name it Vidarbha, after their son.
Shaivya was renowned for her physical strength, and I would not be surprised if this scene happened for them at least once.
@sundaralekhan i am once again sorry for running behind. 🙈
Sundaralekhan 2026 @sundaralekhan - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
