Draupadi

Her mind stopped a moment.. .what does it mean to have loved? Ulupi, Chitrangada, Subhadra — Arjuna had loved so many women!.. Or had he? Had Arjuna given his heart to any woman? Women had loved him but he had given his heart to Krishna. She knew how from the beginning, from the settling of Indraprastha, Arjuna and Krishna would sit talking by the hour. In their talk there was always some new idea — perhaps about building a city; but they talked as friends, each one speaking from his heart and listening to the other. No woman could win Arjuna’s heart. .. Is love always like that? Is it always one-sided? I pine for someone who doesn’t return my love; someone else yearns for me... Suddenly, as if shocked, she stopped. The realization pierced like lightning; there was one who had given his whole life for her. She sighed with her new understanding. Again pictures came before her eyes; Bhima along with Arjuna, fighting the enemies outside the svayamvara pavilion; Bhima ready to burn his brother’s dice-playing hands when she was dragged into the assembly; Bhima, so angry he had to be held down by Arjuna; Bhima, comforting her when she was tired; Bhima, bringing her fragrant lotuses; Bhima, drinking the blood of Duhsha-sana; Bhima, plaiting her hair with gory hands. Arjuna could have killed the Kichaka, but it was Bhima who did. How many things she remembered — greedy Bhima, rough, tempestuous Bhima, always railing at Dhritarashtra and Gandhari. In the same sense that Draupadi was earthy, so was he. She was a daughter of the earth, he was a son. Draupadi heard a dragging sound, then a great sigh. Her whole body quivered with fear. She had been waiting quietly for the moment of her death. Was a wild animal coming? A hyena? In all the days of walking on the plateau they had seen no animals. Better that it fastened on her throat at once, without mauling her. She closed her eyes hard. As she lay waiting for the unnamed danger to strike, suddenly a shadow fell over her eyes. A curtain had dropped between her and the sun. A low deep voice called, “Draupadi.” It was Bhima’s voice. It was he who had dragged himself, gasping with effort, over the ten, fifteen feet that separated them. On the way he had seen Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva lying dead, and had thought Draupadi must be dead too. When Draupadi, frightened at his approach, had quiversed, he had caught with joy this sign of life. “What can I do for you?” The words came out with difficulty. It was the same question he had asked all his life, but in this situation it was utterly meaningless and incongruous. Draupadi smiled. Bringing Bhima’s face close to hers, she said with her last breath, “In our next birth be the eldest, Bhima; under your shelter we can all live in safety and joy.”

Excerpt from Iravati Karve's Yuganta

"I love you, Dominique. I love you so much that nothing can matter to me-not even you. Can you understand that? Only my love-not your answer. Not even your indifference." -Gail Wynand, The Fountainhead

Mumbling #15

I got home from a weekend trip with my family a few days back. I've seen, those who drive the trailers and tempos on highways are madmen! It seems like they like living life on the edge. They change lanes without warning and swish past driving the living soul out of me. My father swooshes his own humble vehicle here and there as my brother cheers him on, my grandmother screams curses between her prayers while my mother nibbles on a piece of orange. I look around incredulously for a second, wondering if the madmen are outside the car or inside. Then put on my music and try to concentrate on the pretty fields of rye we cross. A young man inside the truck overtaking us grins, exposing his pan-stained teeth, like there is no greater pleasure. Chris Martin then whispers in my ear, trying to explain: Honey... It's been a long time coming, and I can't stop now. Such a long time running, and I can't stop now. I don't think I can understand, still.

Squirrel

"All this had happened so often, both in dream and reality, that I could no longer separate one from the other. Neither did it seem all that important to do so. It was a fact that the pages crumbled and fell into pieces beneath my fingers. A fact that the crumbling bits stuck to my fingers...But this happened many times, both in dreams and in reality. that's why I didn't try to separate the two. When I was sure I was dreaming, the electric fan would suddenly stop and I would find myself bathed in sweat. Certain that it was real, I would raise a book in order to smell it, be awakened by the raindrops splashing on to my face through the open window. I didn't worry about it. Isn't it possible that some relationships should extend from dreams into reality, the others be spillover from reality into dream?"


-Ambai, Squirrel, originally published as Anil, October 1986

Mumbling #14

There should be background music playing all the time.
Sweet and low on some days,
Deafeningly loud on others.
Boom boom booming.
Drowning your words,
Letting me look into your eyes better.
And the strange way your lips twitch.
Boom boom boom.
Words can only say so much, you know.


Now Playing:
Youth by Daughter
Thank you Shiromi

Browning says,

It is the glory and good of Art
That Art remains the one way possible
Of speaking truth, to mouths like mine, at least
...Art-wherein man nowise speaks to men,
Only to mankind-Art may tell a truth
Obliquely, do the thing that breed the thought,
Nor wrong the thought, missing the mediate word

So we'll use it a little. To form shapes in clouds and tiles in the toilet. To form creative lies. To find half-truths. To find the other dimension. Without turning into drug addicts of course. And then we'll smile a little.

But thank you.
It's a fucking relief.

Maybe you'll get what you wanted

I want a library of my own. One that smells of old wood and paper. Where sunlight peeps through windows, sometimes falling on faces of strangers. Making them seem familiar. I want a big jet plane, the windows of which I could roll down and put out my head to taste a cloud or two. I want to put every beautiful song I hear in a locket that I could wear. I want an imagination so vivid, that I could draw my own paradise and live in there forever. Maybe get lost in a city I never saw before. Trod though streets in my pretty shoes and never retrace my steps again. I created my bubble after that night. Told you I had got what I wanted. So nothing could break my world. No one could take my moment. I've wanted lots of things. I always have. You gave me a closure. Perhaps I wanted that too. For now, my pillow will do.

Maybe you'll get what you wanted
Maybe you'll stumble upon it
Everything you ever wanted
In a permanent state

Maybe you'll know when you see it
Maybe if you say it, you'll mean it
And when you find it you'll keep it
In a permanent state, a permanent state