would people read a story where a working woman, maybe a professor, hears a knock on her door one night and opens her door to reveal a very dark-skinned smiling baby with a flute and a peacock feather (uhm krishna uhm)? and she takes him in and raises him, basically a fluffy, slice of life, mythological, tale with a sprinkle of next-door-neighbor trope?
"This video will reach people who are having a fantastic September.."
Boring. Scroll up.
"Did you know? There've been developments in cytology that can completely delete the chromosome that causes Down Syndrome?"
The hookline was interesting enough for Yamini to pause. She listened to the woman on the other side of the screen. After a tiring day of teaching first-semester students basic taxonomic terms for an easier year, doomscrolling from 10:30 to 11:45 was a very preferable way to unwind. But today was a holiday for Janmashtami, so the time was cut by 15 minutes.
That is, unless she was interrupted by a phone call from one of her students. Like any other day, she was interrupted today too. By a student whose name she'd saved as 'P. R 3rd Sem.'
"What?" She said, picking up the phone.
"Ma'am, what is the order of Housefly?" Her jaw clenched tight. He called her on a holiday, disrupting her carefully curated day, by asking a preliminary question. The sheer gall.
"Diptera." She shoved the bitter words down the back of her throat and told him the answer.
"Okay, thank you." The student cut the call abruptly.
Yamini sighed, tossing the phone on the mattress. She looked at the time - 11:32 PM. Two minutes late. No time to waste. She had to make haste.
She put on her slippers and padded her way to the bathroom, and proceeded to squeeze some paste onto her toothbrush and brush her teeth. It took five minutes. Usually. So she'd be done by 11:37 PM.
She was done by 11:39 PM.
Around 11:40 PM, she made her way back to her bed, sitting on the bed with a plop. She held her phone in her hands and counted out loud.
"5."
"4."
"3."
"2."
A small smile made its way to her face.
"1."
Her phone buzzed. The contact read "Maa." She answered the call in a heartbeat, angling the phone so her face was visible.
"Good evening," Yamini said to a black screen. "Maa, tumi video call korecho," (You video called me.)
"Ohhh, sorry!" Her mother yelled back, adjusting the phone so that half her face was visible.
"You know we wrap up by 10:20," Her mother replied.
"I need to say something to move the conversation forward. Oh, and only your eyes are visible."
"Now?" Her mother readjusted the phone, and it now showed the ceiling.
"Perfect," Yamini replied dryly.
It was 11:57 PM now. She would be asleep by 12:30 AM after listening to her mother's Janmastami prep. Sounded like a perfectly fine way to spend the night.
That was until her doorbell rang. At 12:00 AM.
"Eto raate ke re?" Yamini could hear her mother's furrowed-brow expression. (Who is it so late at night?)
"How am I to know? I'm on the bed too." Yamini said, getting down from her bed and making her way to the front door of her apartment.
"Stay on call." She muttered to her mother, twisting the doorknob.
No one.
She looked left and right with furrowed brows, but there was no one.
"Waaaakhhhiiii!!!" A shrill, sweet voice rang out.
She looked down.
A baby. In a basket. Smiling. With a flute. And a peacock feather.
"Maa," That was all Yamini could muster. She showed the baby through the back camera.
"What do I do?"
"Arey baba, take it inside!"
She didn't argue further. She placed her phone carefully in the basket and picked the basket up with both hands. The baby started giggling.
"What's so funny?" Yamini said, closing the door behind her with her foot.
She placed the basket on the bed and sat down.
"What do I do, Maa?"
"Today is Janmashtami, so name him Aniruddha." Her mother replied, hands joined in prayer.
"Maa, I'm not even on the list of people Krishna wants to visit." Yamini looked around her room, devoid of any religious symbolism. The religious dogmatism of modern times didn't make her belief in religion stronger.
The baby started to laugh harder, wiggling his chubby arms and legs around. His smile was bright, radiant even; Yamini had to admit that.
"What's so funny now, huh?" She repeated the same question, lightly tickling the baby's stomach.
The usually desolate apartment of Yamini Guha was a little louder tonight.
"Let's do one thing: you stay for the night, and tomorrow we'll see what to do with you, alright?" Yamini said, tugging the basket closer.
"Good night, Maa," Yamini cut the video call.
"Aniruddha, huh?" She said, sitting cross-legged.
The baby clapped its hands in delight.
Yamini smiled. "Why don't you sleep, Aniruddha?"
"Again, the basket isn't the most comfortable place to sleep in." She answered her own question. Common habits of a professor.
The baby grabbed the hem of her t-shirt and tugged with all the force his chubby fingers could exert.
"Fine, c'mere." She gently put aside the yellow blanket covering the baby and picked it up. The baby instantly wrapped his arms around her neck and rested his head on her shoulder.
"Like me that much?" She blurted out before she knew it, patting the baby's back softly.
The baby giggled into her shoulder, the sensation tickling but strangely familiar.
"Enough hugs; why don't we sleep now?" Yamini interrupted the baby nibbling on her shirt with her firm voice.
She pulled Aniruddha away from her shirt and tried (very important verb) to place him on one of her softer pillows. The moment she pulled away, the baby's lower lip upturned, and inevitable tears followed.
He wrapped his legs around hers and stretched his chubby arms as far as he could towards her, "Waaaaaaaa!!!!"
Yamini winced, "Hey hey hey hey, stop, I'm here, the pillow is softer." Yamini tried to reason, pulling him farther away from her as she tried to place him on the pillow.
She almost succeeded.
Almost.
As soon as his tiny body touched the bed, his feet and head were up in the air. And though he had stopped crying, his lips were wobbly and upturned.
He was vehemently protesting against sleeping on a silk pillow.
"Fine, sleep on the basket then, if you prefer it so much." Yamini relented, pulling the basket closer and again trying to place him on it.
The crying didn't ease. It doubled down.
"Not the basket, either, huh?" Yamini picked him up and seated him on her lap for the fourth time.
The baby seemed to calm down.
Yamini tried the basket again.
"Waaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!"
She gave up soon after.
"What is so nice about my lap?"
The baby wrapped his chubby arms around her neck, and with a sideways glance and a loud giggle, rested his head on her shoulder.
Yamini's shoulders relaxed. She adjusted the boy so his legs were resting on her waist; she patted the baby's back softly, rocking her legs to help him fall asleep.
Yamini herself felt her eyes drooping as the baby's breath evened. She rested her head against the headboard and closed her eyes for a moment.
The baby was far from asleep. After making sure his maiyya, his babysitter, was asleep, he raised his head from her shoulder, looking over for a switch.
The light would disrupt his maiyya's sleep!
There.
He tried to reach the switch, but his hands were too short.
His flute wasn't.
Very slowly and carefully, with his tongue poking out in concentration, he grabbed the flute with his tiny little fingers and reached out to turn off the switch. After swinging the flute around three times, his aim was precise, and the switch turned off with a click.
He clapped his hands and giggled quietly, not wanting to wake his tired maiyya up.
He looked at his maiyya one last time, trying to cup her face with his hands. He booped his nose with hers and tried to kiss her right cheek, resorting to a toothless bite instead.
Satisfied with the affection, he rested his head against her shoulder and closed his eyes, trying to even his breathing so his maiyya wouldn't be suspicious (he didn't need sleep!).
Oh, but his maiyya's lap was so nice; he could spend ages feigning sleep.
a/n:-hiii guyss, not my first time writing a story, but def the first time writing smth strictly fluffy. the first chapter will probably be up by sunday or tuesday, depends on my testing schedule. hope you all like it! lots of love!
all pictures are from Pinterest and belong to respective owners.
Chapter I
Living life on a routine was all that Yamini Guha cared about. Brought up in a strict household where tomorrow was decided yesterday, she was very particular about routine. A 28-year-old professor of Life Sciences, she led a mundane life. And she preferred it that way. But a baby - a very beautiful baby with a smile bright enough to rival the sun - arrives on her doorstep and destroys every plan, every routine she'd ever made! Her plans of vacation, teaching, and seminars shatter, and everything twists and bends around a baby who manages to find a peacock feather in her Central Kolkata apartment.
Who helps her? It's difficult. Caring for a baby, managing a bunch of hormonal young adults forced to study the animal cell, and her research - it's too much for anyone to handle!
Fret not! God always finds a way to help himself; no, it's actually God who helps those who help themselves. A paediatrician, Dr. Indranil Chakraborty, lives right next door, and who cares for a toddler better than a doctor for toddlers?
"It's a good enough burrito rolll!" Yamini whined, holding the baby, who had been named Aniruddha, over her research papers.
"It'd have been a good one if it were a burrito roll." Indranil stepped closer, gently taking the baby from her arms, cooing at him.
"Who's my champ? Yes, you are! Yes, you are!" He picked up the baby, booping him on the nose. Yamini sat on the bed, shoulders slumped from the day's work. Indranil sat beside her too.
"I don't know how to mother for real," She said, sighing, looking at the baby who had not a wink of sleep in his eyes.
"No one really expects you to." He replied, rocking the baby in his arms.
Yamini felt a tug on her shirt. A set of chubby little fingers was wrapped taut around her sleeve, tugging her closer until her shoulders almost touched Indra's.
The baby, the chubby diplomat, as Yamini had named him, proceeded to wrap his tiny arms around Indranil and clap, with a toothless smile!
Here's the story of an overworked professor, a paediatrician with too much love to give, and very clever baby with a knack for flutes and feathers.
Yet, I'm as much Bengali, if not more than the ones sitting in Bengal (no matter what a certain Chief Minister says about my language mother tongue).
Amidst all political debates - debates on who will win, who won't, why someone will win, why someone won't - we forgot why there's no chance she'd have won.
She lost on 9th August, 2024.
She lost on the day an innocent human lost their life in their workplace, their second home.
She lost on the day she blamed the victim, for staying outside late, for her job.
She lost when she interfered with the investigation.
She lost when she offered money in exchange for a life.
She lost when lax security cost a mother her child.
She lost when a girl with a flower tucked in her hair, love in her heart, lost her precious life to a demon(s).
She lost because she failed a woma(e)n.
She lost when she told the women of Sandeshkhali to forget the past.
She lost when she protected shameless rapists.
She lost when a mother fought to change the system.
She lost because she forgot she lived in a land where the divinity of women is revered.
She lost because she thought she could play God.
She lost because she believed she was invincible.
She lost because she forgot there is a power greater than a chair.
i heard my father say 'bad things happen to good people' yesterday. i do not agree with it at all. bad things happen to everyone. god does not always throw a dice in favor of bad people, inherently evil people are also on the receiving end of bad luck.
i believe - bad things happen to everyone. you become good or bad depending on how you take it. do you let the grief soften you? or do you let it consume you? that is up to you. sure, sometimes, it will seem like good things are happening to everyone but you. but in time, you will come to know that - it was for the best.
standing tall despite the misfortune, smiling despite the grimness of it all, keeping your chin up desite all that is weighing you down, that is what makes you good.
and of course, believing in goodness keeps you good.
soooo, my gra(e)y's anatomy-infused brain listened to coke studio's 'piya ghar aaya' on repeat yesterday, and i kind of cooked up something. ignore the blatant murder of medical terms, just feel the fibes<3
The hospital was fairly quiet tonight. Luck had favoured her, it seemed. It was rare for a night shift to be this calm. Night shifts for a third-year surgery resident usually meant keeping tabs on all the patients, writing the post-op notes, and the like. So, she did what any person on their right mind would do - locked the door to the on-call room from the inside, took out her earpods, and listened to songs to lull herself to sleep. She could sleep off the last eight hours; there were practically no surgical patients tonight.
The music app only recommended one song - Piya Ghar Aaya. Strange. Not something she would sleep to, but it was not unpleasant. Qawwalis were not something to sleep to. Anyways, she pressed ‘play’. Not long after, her phone rang. With groggy eyes, she checked the caller, ‘Head Nurse Ma’am.’
Picking up the call with a ‘hello’, a voice rang out from the other side, “Where are you, doctor? We have an accident. Vehicle crash. Come!”
The drowsiness was knocked out of her body. She got up, put on her mismatched slippers, and ran out the door, not bothering to take off the earpods. The song still played,
'Mera piya ghar aaya, ho laal ni,
O piya ghar aaya, saanu allah milaya.'
She grimaced at the song choice as she ran to the emergency room. The adrenaline coursing through her body took the sleep with it, and she was breathless once she reached the ER. She walked (ran) over to the crowd of nurses and interns gathered around a gurney.
“Move aside, let me see.” She said, motioning the crowd to move with her hands.
She knew the person on the gurney.
She tried her hardest to forget that face.
It was… her. Her girlfriend. She was injured - glass shards pierced her skin, the once-unblemished skin matted with blood, and she had a huge gash right on the side of her forehead. Her bloody visage made bile rise to the doctor’s throat. She had seen bloodier visages before, but this.. this would haunt her dreams. The damned song continued to play,
'O padh padh ilm kitaabon wala, naam rakhayon qazi,'
A nudge to her shoulder shook her out of her thoughts - “We are losing her! Quick! Bring the crash cart!” A nurse yelled.
Yes, they were losing her. She was losing her friend.
'Makkay jaa kar hajj padh aayo, naam rakhayon haaji'.
She looked at the monitor beeping steadily. The heart rate kept dropping steadily.
62.
56.
52.
42.
31.
Without thinking, she got to chest compressions. Placing the heel of her right hand over her friend patient's chest, and interlocking her two hands, she pressed consistently, uncaring of the glass shards digging into her skin. She performed the motion untiringly, her own hands becoming bloody, shrugging off the hands of the nurses trying to pry her off the patient.
“Wait! Wait, get away!” She screamed.
All the training, books, everything, would be worthless if she couldn’t save her friend.
`Padh shamsheer mujahidin walo, naam rakhayon ghazi’
She continued the motion with precision, the song falling on deaf ears. Her hands worked mechanically; she could not even feel the ache settling in her arms. The familiar crack of broken ribs reached her ears.
Her strong girl could survive a few broken ribs. Her strong girl could survive anything.
'Bulley shah ne kuch nahi kida,'
“Survive, please, please, please.” She could not even feel the tears.
The monitor continued to beep incessantly, the lines spiking up with each push.
'Bulley Shah ne kuch ni kida,'
The others kept looking at the monitor.
42.
51.
62.
64.
62.
78.
89.
The beeping stopped.
She had saved her.
A hand to her shoulder snapped her out of her trance. It was the head nurse. She looked over her shoulder, hands unstopping, “What?!”
I used to find it paradoxical that Hinduism encouraged idol worship, all the while saying that god lived in all of us. In fact, the mere concept of offering my salutations to stone and clay idols baffled me! How could a religion that preached about an omnipresent god encourage idol worship? Because of the aforementioned reasons, I tried to avoid daily pujas and going to temples altogether.
A few days back, my mother asked me to do the daily puja. I agreed, of course, I lack the courage to say no to her. An almost sudden epiphany struck me while washing the feet of Kali Maa. I realised I was holding the universe in my palms. The feet were barely the size of my thumb, and yet, it brought me so much happiness that I was allowed by the destroyer of time herself a chance to show my devotion. Just how beautiful is that?
It is probably the religious dogmatism that ruined the concept of idol worship. I am sure a menstruating woman touching the idol would bring no harm to her or the idol. It is almost certain that touching the idol without bathing would not make it melt to the ground. The superstitions that stemmed from a lack of education and knowledge gave way to some of the most rigid and orthodox practices of Hinduism.
I am certain that the practice of idol worship was started to make religion accessible to all. Surely, not everyone could recite the Vedas word-for-word; only the learned and upper-classmen of society had knowledge of Sanskrit. Hence, the people, out of pure love for their god, made a simple idol of how they imagined their god to be - some imagined a woman with ten arms, some imagined a flute-holding cowherd, some imagined a bowman, some imagined a hermit meditating. They offered flowers, water, and fruits to the idols, not to appease them, never to ask for blessings, but to show their love in a way they knew best - through servitude.
Why is idol worship frowned upon now? Because of the rigid systems and the bogus superstitions surrounding them. Why, why, why, why would offering flowers to an idol help me pass my exams? How would offering fruits to a temple help me get a job? It will not unless I work for it. This is not unconditional devotion; it is very much conditional, and it goes against the very core of Hinduism: working without expecting results.
If anything, it makes me feel happy that idol worship exists. It makes me giddy to see Krishna, the preserver of the universe, take the form of a copper idol to receive my love. I can wash the feet of the destroyer of time, I can give my favourite sweet to the destroyer of the universe, how amazing is that!
However, the current state and beliefs surrounding idol worship are baffling(I'm sure the gods have a good laugh about it). How does a religion that accepts monotheism, atheism, polytheism, everything, have problems with a menstruating woman entering a temple, and expect to get a red cloth from Kamakhya? Hinduism celebrates menstruation, too! How do you expect god to defend you, when you yourself fail to pick up weapons to defend yourself?
In fact, how do you objectify women and recite the Gayatri Mantra in the same hour? How are you homophobic and Hindu when the ANCIENT religious scriptures support them? Seriously, pick your poison.
Why is pain in love so glorified? I dont want to cry like a fool just because someone refused to reciprocate my feelings. I dont want to fall in love and if love ever comes to me I hope all it will do is to help me grow instead of make me fall and wreck me apart so much that all I will be left would be misery.
Kali-ma is the wrathful and protective force of Shakti (energy/power), often called the goddess of destruction, doomsday, transformation and time. She's a caring mother to her devotees and the destroyer of evil.
Kali-ma in Buddhism
Palden Lhamo is a protector of Buddhist & a bodhisattva associated with prosperity, protection & success
The connection between Kali-ma and the protectress bodhisattva Palden Lhamo suggests a link between the two traditions.
Palden Lhamo has many names: Sri Devi, Palden Lhamo Kalidevi, and so on.
“Palden lhamo Kalidevi” This name alone suggests a connection to Kali-ma in Hinduism. This connection may be due to the geographic proximity of the Himalayan region, where Hindu deities may have been absorbed into Buddhism.
Kali ma in Christianity
known as "Sara Kali" or "Sara la Kali," is revered by the Romani people and is the patroness of displaced people. There is a popular belief that she was either an Egyptian-Indian slave of one of the 3 Mary's or the lost daughter of Jesus.
When the Romani people were persecuted and forced to convert to Christianity, they blended their indigenous Hindu beliefs with Christian practices, creating a form of syncretism.
The name "Sara" itself is seen in the appellation of Durga as Kali-ma in the famed text “Durgasaptashati"
Just like any other Bengali, I love, love, love Durga Puja. But, a teeny-tiny part of me adores Kali Puja a bit more. While Durga Puja is all about extravagance, artistic liberation, Kali Puja is more about quiet devotion. While only the pandals are decorated during Durga Puja, in Kali Puja, each and every home is decorated with lights, diyas and whatnot; nothing grand, just plain and simple diya to honour the goddess Kali. The cremation grounds, or the samshan ghats, that usually symbolise death and endings are decorated during the Puja, coming to life, welcoming beginnings, embracing life.
Kali is a very fierce and more destructive form of the mother goddess Durga, but she is none the more motherly and nurturing. She stands over her husband, Lord Shiva, with blood-red, angry eyes, holding the severed of the evil Raktabija(the demon she slayed), adorning a garland of skulls, holding a scimitar or kharga in one hand, slaying demons left and right, with her long, bloody tongue rolled out of their mouth as if hungry for blood. Very scary, indeed. But, her bhakts, her devotees, her children are blind to all of that. They do not see a blood-thirsty, angry goddess, they see a mother. A kind, loving, benevolent mother, who cradles her children in her lap, protects her children, loves them selflessly. She is their mother, ever loving, ever forgiving mother. It is seen in the idols itself. Instead of holding a fierce, angry expression, in Bengal, Maa Kali idols hold a very mellow, loving expression, as if she is gazing at her children endearingly, which she does. To her devotees, she is not the destroyer of time, rather she is destroyer of all their hardships, their sorrows. We worship her out of love, not out of fear. She does not need us to read elaborate mantras, give her a whole bouquet of flowers; she only wants us to offer her a simple flower out of pure devotion, she only wants us to call her 'maa', wants us too see her as our forgiving mother.
For me, the best part about Kali Puja is definitely the songs. For the duration of Kali Puja, every nook and corner echoes with the soulful voice of Pannalal Bhattacharya, Kumar Sanu, and many others. While most songs about Durga Puja talk about the puja itself, Shayma Sangeet speaks only of Kali, of her greatness, of her love, of her. The songs are an ode to her, her love. The songs are like a child praising their mother, asking their mother for solace in her embrace. The songs feel like a child calling to their for help. The songs tell of Kali not as a destroyer, not as a goddess, but as a mother. The songs feel like a child coming to rest in their mother's lap, tired of maya. Be it amar chetana chaitanna koro, jenechi jenechi tara, chai na maa go raja hote, all speak of the mother goddess, not of the destroyer of time. If that is not what love in its purest form, then what is?
I do not know any mantras and holy chants at all. All I know are stories of my God, and from what I know, I am certain that if I even chant her name with utmost devotion, she will come, she will embrace me, she will accept me as her daughter. My simple words fail to describe how utterly godly and magnificent she is. She comes in so many forms. To some, she is Kali, and to some she is Krishna, and to some she is Mahakali, destroyer of time, she is nirguna, she cannot be confined to being a woman. She is so much, so much more. But above all, she is a mother, always ready to protect her children, love her children. That is her through all her forms. A loving mother.
My god makes mistakes. My god gives the right blessings to the wrong people. My god sometimes keeps quiet when he sees injustice. My god pretends not to listen to my pleas. My god refuses to let anyone see him. My god is not always right. My god does not makes the right choices. My god sometimes lets bad people roam the earth free. My god lets the good people suffer. Why?
Maybe because, my god is not an all-powerful, all-knowing being. Maybe he is human, just like me and next person. My god makes mistakes, and then he gives himself a chance to correct them, asks for help to correct them. Be it Shiv asking Vishnu to preserve the universe, because he gave the wrong asur a boon. Be it the gods asking Parvati to help defeat Mahisasur, because they gave him a boon. Maybe, this is what makes my god so godly. He asks for help, something we can't do. He accepts his mistakes, something we can't do. He forgives, something we can't do. He speaks up when he must, something we can't. He defends, protects when he must, something we can't do.
I believe in God. Because, my god is the one who broke his promise to help five brothers win a war for righteousness, my god is the one who kept his promise and saved a woman's honour in front a court full of men, when her husbands failed to protect her honour. My god is the one who gave a person a hundred chances to correct himself, but sheathed his head the moment he made the same mistake one-hundred-and-one-nth time. And, my god is the same one who took a form only to feel a mother's undying love. My god is the same one who refused heaven without his wife. My god is the same one who cried rivers helplessly when his wife was abducted. My god is the same one who selflessly adhered to his father's orders and left for exile. My god is the same one who became deaf to his mother's weeps and left his throne. My god is the same one who walked down the path of Shabri's hut, ate her half-eaten fruits, with delight. My god is the same one who gave his friend who fed him rice with devotion, his whole palace. My god is kind.
My god doesn't promise me a stormless sea, he promises me an unsinkable ship. He doesn't answer my prayers right away, but he also doesn't punish me for my sins right away. He gives the bad people a chance, but he also tests the good and pious ones. That is why I believe in my god. My god doesn't promise me eternal happiness, he promises me unshakable will. My god doesn't vanquish all that is bad and evil, instead he preserves the good, because he knows, utopia is a myth. My god does not promise me heaven if I live right, nor does he banishes me to hell when I sin. Instead, he gives me a chance to correct my wrongs over millions of births, and finally gives me a place at his abode when he deems me worthy.
Maybe this is why, I love my God, I do not fear him. I do not fear what will happen to me if I sin, because I know, he will give me a chance to correct me. But, I also know that he won't keep quiet if he sees me repeatedly do wrong. My god doesn't ask me to worship him all day, my god asks me to do what I must, and remember him while doing so. My god doesn't ask me to give all that I own to him, he only asks for my ultimate devotion. And that is why, he is my god, my anchor, the one who fights battles for me I don't even know about, the one who helps to fight my sorrows, the one who only asks me to do what i must, and leave the rest to him, the one who carries my world on his shoulder.
And as the story goes, he will come when he must. He will show himself to me when he must. He will give me what I want when he must, he will punish me when he must. But, I know, he will always love me, he will always comfort me, he will always anchor me when all goes wrong. He will always look after me when no one else can. He will always fight with the world for me. He will always forgive me, when the world even refuses to look at me. And that is exactly why, he is my god, my savior, my friend, not someone I fear, but someone I love.
i'm sorry if what i wrote hurt your sentiments, but there's certain things i'd like to clarify. first up,it takes two to clap a hand, you would cease to exist if one of your parents did not, this is basic biology, not me being 'un-woke', and, i never learned to pray to gods based on their gender. i feel drawn to krishna, vishnu, and i like to write about him and all his different leelas, that's not me not praying to the female goddesses. also, i literally mentioned in the post about how the gods asked parvati for help to help defeat a demon. did you not see that? or were you too busy looking at the pictures and did not bother to read? also, i'm a bengali. and we literally just performed lakshmi puja yesterday, right after the durga puja, where we literally bow down to the divine feminine. if that is not enough, i perform bipadnashini puja, lakshmi puja, among many, many other pujas devoted to female goddesses. and, my religion, no, more like the beliefs i follow do not allow me to differentiate between gods. just as my post said, i like to believe my god is a kind, benevolent being, it doesn't matter to be if he's a simple cowherd in a village, or if she's ten-armed mother vanquishing evil. it's been stated in many holy books, narayan is incomplete without lakshmi, shiv is incomplete without his durga. also, there's the ardhanarishvara, a form where shiv and shakti co-exist together, then there's vishnu's mohini avatar. oh, and then there's kali's krishnakali avatar, which she took because shiv wanted to experience radhahood. how will you decide what gender my god is? and yes, i said god, because i never learned to differentiate between god. to me, there is no difference between shiv, durga, lakshmi, narayan, kali, or saraswati. and that's not me refusing to acknowledge femininity or masculinity, you need both to exist, and that is a fact you need to learn to accept. you do not need to deny masculinity to accept femininity.
It's so embarrassing, really. I cannot believe myself. It's been, what, like three-years since the times we were together, and still, you are not out of my mind. Why? What is it that you have done that still keeps me up at night, thinking about you, praying for your well-being, hoping that yes, you will come back, like you promised? What is even more embarrassing than confessing my feelings to a whole sea of strangers on the internet, when I can just text you, right? But, it's just that, I can't tell you these. You won't understand what I wanted to say, you never will, you never did, you never can.
You were the first person I ever fell in love with, the first person I ever looked from that perspective. I was so hopelessly in love with you for six months before you even knew of my existence. I saw you everyday, and despite your flaws, despite everyone telling me 'no', I fell, hard. I tried to hide it from my friends, but of course, they noticed me smiling, trying to get your attention, vying for it. And two years later, they saw me bawling my eyes out too, you being the reason, they saw me cry helplessly, eyes rimming red, breaths falling short, crying for you, wanting you back. They probably felt bad too. No, not bad, they probably pitied me.
Even after all you did to me, even after all the betrayal, all the words exchanged, all the people between us, even after everything, I'm still hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you. I still want you. I miss you. I dream of you every single day without fail. I think of you every waking moment. It's almost surprising just how much of my being you encapsulate. I cannot, cannot spend a minute without hoping, yearning, longing for you. I never knew love does that kind of thing to you.
I still dream of the day you will come. I dream that when you do finally come like you promised, you will come, holding love for me in your heart, promising to never let go again. Always staying, never leaving. The red string of fate, if any, trying us will finally untangle as our hands will entwine, a fated, tearful reunion. All these theories on the internet, the red string theory, play of fates, Japanese legends, all of it, everything, these are all things I cling to, hold on to, to keep myself sane. If that is what love is, then I never want to fall in love again. Though, I don't think I can ever again.
Even if I don't get you in this life, I'm sure, we will cross paths at least in another life. And in that life, I will never let you go. I will hold on to you, suffocate you with my love, so that you will always remain. I will not repeat the same mistakes. I will not let you repeat the same faults. If fate decides to be cruel, and does not give me you in that life too, then I will be content by gazing at the mirror, because I'm sure of it, in my next life, I will have your face, for I have never loved anyone the way I loved you. That thought gives me solace. That will be enough for me.
You have probably forgotten about me, you must have. I'm probably an insignificant page in your book, but to me, you're my whole book. Without your name, my book is insignificant, useless, not worth knowing, reading. You were what made me 'me'. You still are. My love for you still flows through me, like a river. Your one glance can knock out the air out of me like the wind. You are not just a person to me. You are something more, so much more. And it's embarrassing. Truly, and honestly, the only thing I want is you by my side. I want to succeed by your side, accept defeat in your embrace. Is it too much for me to ask?
You know I don't show my love through extravagant gestures. You know I hate it when people touch me. You know I don't remember anyone's birthday. You know I never spend ten hours making a memory-album from scratch. But, for you, I did. I boasted about you to everyone, I showed you how much I loved the way you wanted me to. I let you hold my hand, hug me, something I never let other people to. I remembered and wished you at exactly 12:00. I broke my rules for you.
Maybe our love didn't stand the test of time. Maybe our love couldn't stay. Maybe our love is better off incomplete. Maybe some loves don't need to be complete. Maybe you loved me less. Maybe you did not love me at all. Maybe you pretended. To me, all of this does not matter. You know why? Because, I loved. I loved with all my heart, with everything I had. My love stood the test of time. My love stayed. My love found solace. My love was real. To me, that is enough. The fact that I stayed true to myself, my love, didn't pretend to not love you, is enough. To me, the fact that I stopped crying myself to sleep, stopped hurting myself, started to myself again, is enough.
You will always be a part of my life that I will cherish.
I will always love you.
I will always be afraid of love now.
I will always remember you.
I will always pray for your well-being.
I will always keep my part of the promise.
I will always wait for you.
I was not a petulant child, nor was I a girl who refused to listen to her parents, nor I was a wife who did not fulfill her duties. Then why? Why did I have to go through what I was going through now? What is it that I had done wrong that led me here? Was it me marrying the five brothers? Was it me speaking up to injustice? Why? Why was my Madhav making me go through this? Did I do wrongs in my past life that I was repenting for now? But, how much wrong could I have done that I ended up here, on the verge of losing my honour?
All the great men and saints stood quiet, their eyes downcast with shame, while the blind king held an expression utter confusion and shame. It seems the blind king now finally became blind to his son's misdeeds too. Even the five brothers, who swore in presence of divine fire to protect their wife kept quiet, extreme shame plastered over their faces. Still, everyone stayed quiet, while the man manhandled their queen, a red, pulsing bruise forming on her forehead from how hard he threw her to the ground. All kept quiet, all would pay.
Madhav, you told me to call out your name, whenever I was scared. I am scared now, so, so scared, Madhav. Save me, come here, protect me. I cannot lose my honor. I cannot. They cannot do this to me. I am not a pawn. I was not a pawn that caused that could be used. I emerged from the fire, I am the fire's daughter. This cannot happen to me. I cannot let this happen to me. You cannot let this happen to me. You said you would always save me, so do so. Save me. I leave all to you now.
And so, she let go of the last piece of cloth she held on to with dear might. All the greats and saints closed their eyes, their honour preventing them from witnessing the humiliation. But, to the surprise of the men who did keep their eyes open, as soon as she raised her hands towards the air in surrender, the garments seems to become endless. No matter how hard or how much he pulled, the garment refused to come off, and a divine glow came over the woman. From above, someone, her sakha, Madhav, who let go of the piece of cloth that she tied to his bleeding hand, watched, his eyes burning with rage. Of course, he could not let this happen to her. And those who refused to speak up, would pay. They would have to pay with their lives, even those who kept quiet and did not partake in the event. That was his promise. And Madhav kept his promise when he must.