#indian fics

[ramayantika]

प्रतीक्षा

The whole village has gone to sleep. Not a sound can be heard. The cool night breeze is blowing just lightly, without letting a leaf rustle in the forest. The village guards too are dozing as the wind lulls their eyes to sleep.

But, there is one boy in the village whose sleep has been robbed off. The young youthful milk maidens of Vraja often talk about this boy amongst themselves and with their dear companions as the boy who robs their sleep and peace with his lovely face and smile.

'He comes in my dreams and steals sweet butter from my pot. When I reprimand him, he smiles sweetly and kisses my cheek. But, when my eyes open at dawn, I find my mother sprinkling water over my face.'

'Isn't he such a charming lad? I don't think there would be any other handsome boy apart from him in all the three worlds.'

The boy in this conversation is none other than the darling child of Yashoda, wife of Nanda Maharaj, who was also the chief of the cowherd community. He was the most beautiful child in Vraja and in adolescence, handsomeness was naturally bestowed upon him.

Skin as dark as the magnificent monsoon clouds, curly hair as soft as silk which sported a band or sometimes a crown of peacock feathers. His limbs were annointed with fragrant sandalwood paste which made his presence distinct from the other boys of Vrindavan. His eyes shaped like beautiful lotus petals, and when he would bat his eyelashes at any maiden passing by his path, she was bound to lose her heart to him. He would often wear yellow clothes and strut the streets of Vrindavan with his friends while causing mischief that annoyed the womenfolk on the outside, but on the inside, they were delighted each time he and his friends would engage in pranks, for then they would have a glimpse of his divine form.

What's his name?

He goes by many names. For Yashoda, he is Kanha. The cowherds call him Gopal, the protector of the cows. The elder males sometimes call him Nandlal, the son of Nanda. Young girls who fawn over him call him Mohan, the one who enchants and sometimes they refer to him as Madanmohan, for he is attractive than the Love God, Kama also called, Madan. He is Muralidhar for he is always seen with a flute on his lips and is called Krishna by all for his noticeable dark monsoon cloud complexion.

When he plays his flute, all the gopis and cows throng to the forest, enchanted by his melodious tunes. The ladies would make amusing excuses to leave their house on time to meet this charming boy on the riverbank of Yamuna, then why was this boy all alone in a flower bower deep in the forest with eyes gazing longingly at the moon that was soon to disappear amongst the night clouds?

A certain maiden of Vraja bhumi has stolen Krishna's heart. She walks with the grace of a swan and her voice is sweeter than the koyal. Her fair complexion pales the beauty of the moon for she is far dazzling than the Purnima moon. She possesses curly hair just like Krishna and decorates it with flowers and beautiful ornaments. With jingling bangles on her wrists and jewelled ankle bells, she dances with him on some nights in the heart of the forest. Those bangles and anklets themselves play a mellifluous melody in rhythm with Krishna's flute.

Wouldn't such a beauty charm this notorious charmer? What is her name?

She is Radha, the daughter of Vrishbhanu.

"What is taking her so long? She is never this late." Krishna murmurs to himself as his fingers gently caress the back of a baby squirrel that has nestled itself on his thigh. "Look, even you have fallen asleep waiting for your dear Radha."

Time passes by. The chirping crickets have given themselves to sleep, but there is no sign of jingling anklets making way into the forest. No boat is rowing down the river. The forest is empty.

The silver moon has donned a dark golden robe around her it seems. When Krishna had first arrived her, the moon was high up in the sky, illuminating the bower and the entire forest, but now its colour has darkened. In no time will she too go to sleep to make way for dawn.

Sighing, he gently places the baby squirrel down on the ground with his mother. Covering their themselves with leaves and twigs, he mutters, "Looks like, she won't come. I should get back home."

Pulling his uttariya that was hanging from the branches of a tree, he drapes it around his body and rubs his arms. The flower garland in his hand withered a long time ago. A dejected look on his face makes him appear as if all the stars in the night sky have lost their light. Walking down the forest path, he approaches the familiar turning that leads the way to the village when he hears the sound of anklet bells.

His heart soars and he walks faster towards the source, knowing it would be his dear Radha only. For a moment, he wonders why do her anklets sound different. 'Maybe, she is wearing a different pair today.'

He sees a figure draped in a black shawl -- its face covered to avoid any recognition. As the figure approaches closer, he smells the scent of jasmine flowers and roses in the air, as a bright smile adorns on his lips.

He jumps in delight and runs towards her direction. Whatever tiredness that had approached him earlier had disappeared in a jiffy. I do wonder how the arrival of a loved one after a long time feels for the one in waiting. A little jitters and excitement makes house in the heart.

Fair hands gently part away from the shawl, and Krishna wastes no moment in clasping them. "Radhey, I thought you would never come tonight. Even though it's quite late now, but I am glad you did come here. Let's not venture inside the forest now. It would be better we walk on the river bank and talk, and then we both will leave for our homes." He shows her the withered garland. "Oh, and I made you this, but it isn't fresh and vibrant anymore, nor does it," he smells the garland, "emit its fragrance like it did initially. But don't worry, I will make a new one tomorrow when you come to meet me."

The fair hands in Krishna's grasp still and our charming cowherd wonders why Radhika hasn't spoken a single word until now. The hands then slowly slide the shawl from their face making Krishna pull back from his position, a shocked and confused expression all over his features.

"Manjari?!"

"The one and only."

"What are you doing here?"

Manjari removes the shawl and places it over her shoulders. Brushing her braid with her fingers, she says, "You aren't the only one who meets your lover in the forest. I am here to meet Anant."

"Then why do you smell like jasmine and roses. Radha uses that scent and Its pretty distinct." Krishna says dejectedly while pouting that it wasn't his beloved Radha.

Manjari couldn't help but laugh at his plight. "Oh, I actually borrowed it from her. I love that scent and I have been looking for it in the market, but it got over. Anant came back from Mathura after a month, so I decided to surprise him with a new fragrance."

"In that case, I better leave you to meet him while I go home and sulk because my lover hasn't come to meet me. You go and enjoy."

Manjari laughs again and pats his shoulder. "She told me that she was supposed to meet you tonight. She leaves her window open. Check her house, she might have dozed off dreaming about you."

He hums and takes her leave while twirling his flute in his fingers. The sounds of those anklet bells soon fade in the distance and our darling Krishna is alone once again.

****** ******** ******** ******** *******

Bonus addition (I am generous)

"You slept???"

"I don't know how. I was getting ready for you and somehow my eyes drooped while braiding flowers in my hair."

"Manjari was right then."

"I am sorry. I kept you- wait what? What on earth was Manjari doing there?"

"We aren't the only ones who go to the forest alone at night, Radhe"

"Oh. Well, yes, she had told me that Anant was coming back which is why she borrowed my perfume vial."

"Also, it's okay. You need your beauty sleep, besides in a way it serves me right. Haven't I troubled you so many times by reaching late?"

"That has helped come with many creative and convincing ideas to make excuses to my mother, Krishna. I think it's a good exercise."

"Well, let's meet in the evening today then? Don't sleep early."

Both of them laugh and Radhika nods. "Not this time."

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*: ･ﾟ☆｡ ･:*:･ ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Tagging the sakhis: @ma-douce-souffrance @swayamev @inexhaustible-sources-of-magic @pothosinpots @arachneofthoughts @jessbeinme15 @reallythoughtfulwizard @madhoshiyaan @eugenephosgene @lil-stark @pokemon-master-elita @riiddhhiii

[ginazmemeoir]

Kashibai-Mastani

I was inspired by @allegoriesinmediasres to right this fic. It’s three pages long, so i would advise you to sit tight.

Kashi stood numb as she watched the projector curtain burn. She felt that Baji had burnt their marriage of 20 years too in a single night.

Mastani drew in a breath as Bajirao drew her closer in the Aaina Mahal in open defiance of his mother Radhabai. The anger on her face was clear, and Mastani felt as if she was committing a crime, when she shouldn’t have to.

It had been a year since the Aaina Mahal incident. Baji first reduced his visits, and then stopped altogether. He spent most of his time with Mastani in the palace he had specially constructed for her. The only time he saw Kashi was when she came back from her mother’s home after delivering her secondborn who was at length christened Raghunathrao (she called him Raghu or Raghoba). Even then he had left immediately to assist Mastani with her birth. Kashi hated a small part of herself for wishing that both mother and child died that day. She did everything to convince herself that she was happy, but the shock of betrayal had left her hollow. The maids and noblewomen were silenced by her sister-in-laws, but Kashi felt the sting of their taunts. She tried to believe she was luckier and happier, for she had the support of her entire kingdom and family, but really she just felt stripped of everything – cast adrift in a cruel sea.

Mastani now knew the true meaning of heaven. Yes she missed her father’s palace very much, but she would even trade the pleasure of a thousand jannats to spend time with Baji. He was teaching Krishna to walk right now (she insisted on calling him Krishna, while Baji called him Bahadur), and she felt she was in a dream – beautiful and fragile, and she feared it would break one day and she would wake up cold and alone.

Kashi didn’t know what to do. She considered her options – Mastani and her son’s death would mean that she had a chance to get back everything she had. But she knew nothing would ever be the same – her husband would be a broken man. No matter how much she wanted, her conscience wouldn’t let her commit such a crime, not today when she was worshipping Ganpati, the lord of auspiciousness and happiness. She went and told Baji during the aarti and they both rushed to rescue her, reaching just in time as she slew the final assassin and collapsed. Kashi hugged Bahadur and checked him for any harm. Then looking at Baji, she left and sent for the doctors.

Mastani felt her dream was cracking. She remembered each cruelty she had experienced at the hands of the Peshwa elite – staying in a brothel, being asked to dance in a private audience, and now almost being killed. She now feared for the life of her son, but one look at Baji, and she knew he would do anything to keep her safe. But just for her sake, she asked her father to send a contingent of her loyal Rajput soldiers from Banda.

It had been six years since things changed between her and Baji. Her wounds were healing, and Kashi was going to invite Mastani today for Gauri Padwa. As she reached Mastani Mahal, she heard both children giggling. The mothers couldn’t be happier that the animosity between them hadn’t affected their children in anyway – Raghoba and Bahadur were practically inseparable. Kashi stood near the threshold for a long time. She took in all of the palace – a marvel truly, it was a fusion of Rajputi, Mughal and Marathi architecture. There were jalis and jharokhas, a space she thought was meant for dua and ibadat and then a shrine dedicated to Krishna. Truly Mastani was wonderful. The palace was bare and elegant, sprawled instead with lush gardens, courtyard and fountains. She spotted an armoury, fit for warriors like her. Mastani was reciting poetry to the children then – it was about a pearl yearning to get out of the clam and embrace the ocean. Her poetry was magical, meanwhile Kashi wrote poems about a frog who ate nothing but laddoos and farted. Finally, the kids were sent away and Kashi entered.

Mastani saw Kashi standing near the threshold. She didn’t invite her, but instead used the poetry as a cover to recollect what she knew about her. They hadn’t met often, but on the rare occasion they had, she had found her to be collected and composed, watching everything silently. Mastani’s father had desperately tried to teach her these court manners, but failed on watching her giggling. The rest, she knew from Bajirao. He described her in astounding detail, like one would describe the full moon. She was innocent, but was a born empress. She navigated the deadly world of politics with ease, disarming opponents with kindness and taunts at the same time. She had established a strong rapport with her in-laws, and being the daughter of the richest banker in Pune, she had a head for numbers. Baji even described her palace while constructing hers -  it was an elaborate architecture, covered with statues and intricate carvings. There were not many gardens and the armoury was absent, but there was instead a well equipped kitchen and atelier, with foreign supplies. Everywhere one looked there was light; the entire structure was covered in arches of diyas, lamps and chandeliers. Her room was painted in bright colours, and there was a coveted bronze statue which must have cost a fortune. Kashi was every inch the empress she was. Shooing the children away, she invited her.

Kashi didn’t know what overcame her, but the poison she carried with her for six years came out pouring like a river. She had no sense of what she was speaking, but she knew it was not fit to be spoken by the Peshwain for the Princess of Budelkhand.

Mastani had expected this. She called her mistress and whore, a destroyer of homes; this she heard everyday – what she hadn’t expected was for her to start crying, then apologize and tell her to be strong, and then invite her to the Padwa function she had organized in the main palace.

That day both danced and revelled, ate food, prayed for happiness and shared as women, and unwittingly both had created a place in the other’s heart.

The next week Baji finally visited Kashi’s palace. The place had changed – it was not lit by lamps anymore. Kashi now knew what she was doing; she lashed out at Baji, called him a thousand cruel names. She reminded him of the way he hurt her, and then didn’t even care to come. So she banned him from her palace henceforth. She then wished him a long life and victory in battle, as he headed out to Hyderabad to quell the Nizam.

Mastani gave Bajirao his armour and swords. The right was reserved for the Peshwain, but Bajirao felt a warrior princess was better suited. He felt eerily calm as he shared a cryptic message with her and then rode off to battle.

Baji had fallen sick with fever and there were sores over his body. Palanquins were readied for Kashi and Radhabai in the dead of night along with a regiment of doctors, nurses, maids, cooks and soldiers as they headed to Rawalkhedi, when Kashi halted the procession. She went down from her palanquin, and rushed out, returning with Mastani and her son. Baji needed her. However Radhabai still had her way – Mastani was to come with the soldiers, cooks and maids later on. She arrived two days after Kashi. Bajirao rushed out of the tent to embrace her. That was the first night his week long fever broke.

There was not much to do, and so Kashi and Mastani spent most of the time together. They talked, laughed, ran, played games, and wept. Before long, both the women were fast friends.v

Baji was declared dead. All were shocked beyond measure. Nanasaheb was called from Pune to light fire to his father’s funeral pyre. He was then anointed Peshwa at Rawalkhedi. Kashi and Mastani now knew the real meaning of separation. They felt as if the precarious thread from which their lives were connected had snapped.

Weeks went by even after reaching Pune till Mastani emerged from her palace. As regnant Peshwain, Kashi was immediately swarmed by duties. Both women started moving towards the other, finding solace in the other’s company. It was time for Kashi to shave her head and burn her clothes and jewellery. Mastani convinced her otherwise – she was a human too, and her life without Baji just had as much meaning as with him. Both gave each other courage, and soon friendship blossomed to love.

They embraced each other in a secluded garden like they were the last humans on earth. Kashi wept, for she thought their relation was not meant to be. Mastani was made of stronger metal. She wrote a letter to her father the next day, asking his permission to marry Kashi. It took a week for the letter to arrive with the best of runners. The letter was in her mother’s writing. Both parents had blessed the union, but advised her to move with caution, even telling her to come back to Banda where she would be safe.

Mastani broke the news to Kashi. Kashi couldn’t believe her ears – what she believed was impure and irrational, was indeed love, and Mastani was willing to sacrifice everything for it. Kashi mustered all her courage and contacted her father too. The letter was delivered to her in secret – her father reaffirmed her that all love is pure, and further warned that if the Peshwas further tried to snatch her daughter’s happiness, he would make paupers out of them. Both sets of parents convinced, the only obstacles left were Radhabai and Nanasaheb.

Radhabai had reformed after her son’s death. She had accepted Mastani and her son, and even inculcated mullahs along with pandits to educate the young Peshwa princes. However, it took a lot of diplomacy and some tears to convince her of the union between a Hindu and Muslim widow.

Nana was a tougher nut to crack. He loved his mother, but still hated Mastani with a burning intensity, blaming her for his mother’s sorrows. He had always stayed under his grandmother’s shadow, and thus his young mind had already developed rigid ideas surrounding religion, caste, and women. It took two months for him to accept the union, after realizing the need for his mother to have a partner, and her right to be happy.

The wedding was conducted with full pomp and gaiety. The entirety of Pune, the Maratha nobility, and the relatives of both the brides arrived for this strange ceremony taking place. The ceremony was conducted through both Hindu and Muslim customs to keep religious tensions to a minimum. Both brides were resplendent and happy, and then retired to their quarters.

Their marriage ushered a new peace in the Maratha empire – strengthening unity and for the first time raising questions about women’s and widows’ rights. Mastani had headed with her son to the Battle of Panipat as a diplomat and was instrumental in brokering peace. Kashi played her part as the Peshwain to perfection, handling the increasingly autonomous Maratha chiefs.

They retired after the battle to a palace within the woods. The women lived in peace, and served as an example for history – that love indeed is boundless.

[ramayantika]

Hi i had a book idea once for Satybhama. The wip has been abandoned since 2021 but here you go. I wrote this in 2021.

The Great War is over. My husband, Krishna, has left the earth. Dwarka has sunk, and my sons and grandsons have perished in the civil war. Some of my sister queens have jumped into the fire and the rest have busied themselves in meditation in various corners of this forest where I live. I can’t find them though.

Tall trees and thick bushes are the only things my eyes can see around. There is absolutely no human living beside me or in my vicinity. Here, the only edible items are fruits and tubers, which taste heavenly. Some years before, I would have grimaced at the mere thought of living on fruits in a forest due to my upbringing and royal status. It never fails to amaze me how time changes everything. A city once ruled by a tyrant is brought down and a city built by the finest of architects gets submerged under a sea getting lost to time and history forever. Time is indeed the ultimate killer. No one can escape it.

I am currently sitting under a Neelmohar tree. Maybe it is their growing season, for the tree is filled with purple flowers. Many of them are lying near my feet. I pick one and gently rub my thumb across one of its petals. The colour reminds me of my purple saree, which Krishna had gifted me, and the flower’s softness reminds me of the saree’s beautiful texture. The saree must be in the seabed now, drifting along the sea-waves. Bhadra loved that saree and would shower me with compliments whenever I wore it.

Dwarka — my second home, where I have spent almost all my life, now lies under the sea, hidden from sight. The once tall buildings where I once walked, the beautiful gardens where Krishna and I spent some lovely times, the archery room which Krishna had specifically built for me, everything now exists in my brain like an old dream. I do not remember how much time has passed since Krishna’s death and the submerging of Dwarka. All the time that I have spent in this forest has been devoted to contemplation about my life.

What is there to contemplate about my life? Do I contemplate about the riches I was brought up with? Do I think about the domestic tensions of my household? Do I wonder about the coming Kali Yuga?

There is so much to think about. What did I do in my life? What will happen once my soul leaves my body? Will someone mourn for me? Will I find Krishna smiling with his perfect rosy lips and pearly teeth in the afterlife? Is there even something beyond death? Wise men say that death is not the end, is it not? These are philosophical questions that Krishna would have answered had he been with me here. Now as I am talking to you, I wonder about my memories which appear in front of my eyes as if belonging to an old dream.

I see my childhood self, running on the corridors of my father’s home with my friends. The scene changes where I find myself aged a little older — I am probably fifteen there, I think. There is a bow in my hand and I am assessing the target ahead. Once again, the scene changes and I can see a marriage ceremony followed by the war and the end of Dwarka. But memories resurface again as if asking to look beyond the mundane. I can hear a voice inside me, whispering, ‘There is more to your story; you must go through it all.’

Now I see something else. There is my father’s house standing tall and proud, and a little girl is playing in the mud while looking at the flower bushes in wonder. I see my mother in a temple where I ask about the goddess Durga. My childhood memory flutters away and my teenaged form arrives. I am young, curious and hot-headed. I am travelling alone in Mathura where I see the exact condition of the people residing. It is pathetic. I see myself now as a wedded woman in the kitchen chatting happily with my sister queens about the day. Now I see my lord, my Krishna, putting flowers in my hair while we talk about the sea. He says, ‘Water when demure nourishes the land, bringing us delight and when water turns wild and frightening, it shall engulf all leaving not even remains behind.’

I realize everything. My life’s story does not start with archery, nor does it end with Dwarka. It starts with me being a curious child trying to understand nature and men, and my story is still incomplete.

“Who am I, mother?” I had raised this question once when I stared into a mirror for a long time, finding my reflection slightly different. I realize I never found the answer.

Who am I now? Who shall answer me?

My mother once told me that there are some questions whose answers lie within our hearts. One must introspect over it and they shall find the answer that has been hiding in their heart all along.

I can feel my heartbeat quicken its pace. My mind is busy with its chain of memories arranging themselves haphazardly. Each incident whispers its lessons to my ears and I feel overwhelmed. I want to share my thoughts with someone. Do you want to listen to me?

I will cease to exist after some time. Historians, poets, and scribes will write stories about me that will be read and heard by people across the world. Fame isn’t my concern nor my desire, for I have had a good share of it. The only thing that concerns me is will the Satyabhama in their scripts be me? How much of my life will they write about? What will they include and exclude? How much of my actions will be overdramatized if by any chance someone gains enough liberty to do so? My life story can even turn into a mythical story, and only I would know that I once existed in bones and muscles.

So before you read and hear about me, I want you to hear me speak about my life, Satyabhama’s life. Here, I promise you that I shall present my story with complete honesty. Satyabhama is my name, which means ‘beaming with truth.’ I promise to be true to myself and you.

Would you like to hear?

This is how it begins…

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