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kvetchlandia · 2 years ago

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I’m an old man now, and a lonesome man in Kansas but not afraid to speak my lonesomeness in a car, because not only my lonesomeness it’s Ours, all over America, O tender fellows— & spoken lonesomeness is Prophecy in the moon 100 years ago or in the middle of Kansas now. It’s not the vast plains mute our mouths that fill at midnite with ecstatic language when our trembling bodies hold each other breast to breast on a mattress— Not the empty sky that hides the feeling from our faces nor our skirts and trousers that conceal the bodylove emanating in a glow of beloved skin, white smooth abdomen down to the hair between our legs, It’s not a God that bore us that forbid our Being, like a sunny rose all red with naked joy between our eyes & bellies, yes All we do is for this frightened thing we call Love, want and lack— fear that we aren’t the one whose body could be beloved of all the brides of Kansas City, kissed all over by every boy of Wichita— O but how many in their solitude weep aloud like me— On the bridge over Republican River almost in tears to know how to speak the right language— on the frosty broad road uphill between highway embankments I search for the language that is also yours— almost all our language has been taxed by war. Radio antennae high tension wires ranging from Junction City across the plains— highway cloverleaf sunk in a vast meadow lanes curving past Abilene to Denver filled with old heroes of love— to Wichita where McClure’s mind burst into animal beauty drunk, getting laid in a car in a neon misted street 15 years ago— to Independence where the old man’s still alive who loosed the bomb that’s slaved all human consciousness and made the body universe a place of fear— Now, speeding along the empty plain, no giant demon machine visible on the horizon but tiny human trees and wooden houses at the sky’s edge I claim my birthright! reborn forever as long as Man in Kansas or other universe—Joy reborn after the vast sadness of the War Gods! A lone man talking to myself, no house in the brown vastness to hear imagining that throng of Selves that make this nation one body of Prophecy languaged by Declaration as Pursuit of Happiness! I call all Powers of imagination to my side in this auto to make Prophecy, all Lords of human kingdoms to come Shambu Bharti Baba naked covered with ash Khaki Baba fat-bellied mad with the dogs Dehorahava Baba who moans Oh how wounded, How wounded Sitaram Onkar Das Thakur who commands give up your desire Satyananda who raises two thumbs in tranquility Kali Pada Guha Roy whose yoga drops before the void Shivananda who touches the breast and says OM Srimata Krishnaji of Brindaban who says take for your guru William Blake the invisible father of English visions Sri Ramakrishna master of ecstasy eyes half closed who only cries for his mother Chitanya arms upraised singing & dancing his own praise merciful Chango judging our bodies Durga-Ma covered with blood destroyer of battlefield illusions million faced Tathagata gone past suffering Preserver Harekrishna returning in the age of pain Sacred Heart my Christ acceptable Allah the compassionate one Jaweh Righteous One all Knowledge-Princes of Earth-man, all ancient Seraphim of heavenly Desire, Devas, yogis & holymen I chant to— Come to my lone presence into this Vortex named Kansas, I lift my voice aloud, make Mantra of American language now, I here declare the end of the War! Ancient days’ Illusion!— and pronounce words beginning my own millennium. Let the States tremble, let the nation weep, let Congress legislate its own delight, let the President execute his own desire— this Act done by my own voice, nameless Mystery— published to my own senses, blissfully received by my own form approved with pleasure by my sensations manifestation of my very thought accomplished in my own imagination all realms within my consciousness fulfilled 60 miles from Wichita near El Dorado, The Golden One, in chill earthly mist houseless brown farmland plains rolling heavenward in every direction one midwinter afternoon Sunday called the day of the Lord— Pure Spring Water gathered in one tower where Florence is set on a hill, stop for tea & gas

Cars passing their messages along country crossroads to populaces cement-networked on flatness, giant white mist on earth and a Wichita Eagle-Beacon headlines “Kennedy Urges Cong Get Chair in Negotiations” The War is gone, Language emerging on the motel news stand, the right magic Formula, the language known in the back of the mind before, now in black print daily consciousness Eagle News Services Saigon— Headline Surrounded Vietcong Charge Into Fire Fight the suffering not yet ended for others The last spasms of the dragon of pain shoot thru the muscles a crackling around the eyeballs of a sensitive yellow boy by a muddy wall Continued from page one area after the Marines killed 256 Vietcong captured 31 ten day operation Harvest Moon last December Language language U.S. Military Spokesmen Language language Cong death toll has soared to 100 in First Air Cavalry Division’s Sector of Language language Operation White Wing near Bong Son Some of the Language language Communist Language language soldiers charged so desperately they were struck with six or seven bullets before they fell Language Language M-60 Machine Guns Language language in La Drang Valley the terrain is rougher infested with leeches and scorpions The war was over several hours ago! Oh at last again the radio opens blue Invitations! Angelic Dylan singing across the nation “When all your children start to resent you Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?” His youthful voice making glad the brown endless meadows His tenderness penetrating aether, soft prayer on the airwaves, Language language, and sweet music too even unto thee, hairy flatness! even unto thee despairing Burns! Future speeding on swift wheels straight to the heart of Wichita! Now radio voices cry population hunger world if unhappy people waiting for Man to be born O man in America! you certainly smell good the radio says passing mysterious families of winking towers grouped round a Quonset-hut on a hillock— feed storage or military fear factory here? Sensitive City, Ooh! Hamburger & Skelley’s Gas lights feed man and machine, Kansas Electric Substation aluminum robot signals thru thin antennae towers above the empty football field at Sunday dusk to a solitary derrick that pumps oil from the unconscious working night & day & factory gas-flares edge a huge golf course where tired businessmen can come and play— Cloverleaf, Merging Traffic East Wichita turnoff McConnell Airforce Base nourishing the City— Lights rising in the suburbs Supermarket Texaco brilliance starred over streetlamp vertebrae on Kellogg, green jeweled traffic lights confronting the windshield, Centertown ganglion entered! Crowds of autos moving with their lightshine, signbulbs winking in the driver’s eyeball— The human nest collected, neon lit, and sunburst signed for business as usual, except on the Lord’s Day— Redeemer Lutheran’s three crosses lit on the lawn reminder of our sins and Titsworth offers insurance on Hydraulic by De Voors Guard’s Mortuary for outmoded bodies of the human vehicle which no Titsworth of insurance will customize for resale— So home, traveler, past the newspaper language factory under Union Station railroad bridge on Douglas to the center of the Vortex, calmly returned to Hotel Eaton Carry Nation began the war on Vietnam here with an angry smashing ax attacking Wine— Here fifty years ago, by her violence began a vortex of hatred that defoliated the Mekong Delta— Proud Wichita! vain Wichita cast the first stone!— That murdered my mother who died of the communist anticommunist psychosis in the madhouse one decade long ago complaining about wires of masscommunication in her head and phantom political voices in the air besmirching her girlish character. Many another has suffered death and madness in the Vortex from Hydraulic to the end of 17th –enough! The war is over now— Except for the souls held prisoner in Niggertown still pining for love of your tender white bodies O children of Wichita!

-- Allen Ginsberg, “Wichita Vortex Sutra” 1966

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ramayantika · 1 year ago

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Hey I don’t mean to be rude in any way I am trying to get this across in a very reasoning way-I saw your “Braj ki holi” fic and it’s tagged “Krishna x reader” somehow it just feels a bit iffy to me because you’ve also put it on your masterlist as “Fics” I don’t know if you follow or don’t but lord Krishna is not just a fictional character that you’d be writing fanfics????? He’s a god. A very loved deity and maybe it comes from a spiritual place for you—as in the love you hold for him but somewhat it’s inappropriate. “Fics” is what people write about some Netflix character or what not lord Krishna is a god-and I know everyone’s a different kind of bhakt but the fic thing’s made me very uncomfortable. A lot of religious sentiments are set with krishnaji and just someone writing a “fic” on him like he’s just another movie/series character seems so low to me

Hi there! I do get your point. I knew it that these works for some of you might come up as very casual writings on Krishna. I assure that I have never written these as a mere book character on whom I would write anything. My mother herself has read my stories and I had told her about the plot. I never mentioned in detail how and why I got this idea and why did I write so here you go.

The story started of as my own musings as a teen who was barely 13 or 14. It seemed silly but I enjoyed it. Later I had seen some modern themed rukmini Krishna paintings and the same story clicked in my head. This might seem like I am making it off to make myself seem right, but that's upto you. The girl in the story was the general idea from my kiddish story, but I also knew that I wasn't going to make just any random girl and pair him up. That's why I named her Bhaishmi after 'Rukmini who was Bhishmaka's daughter. I had mentioned it somewhere in the first part of the series in the tags but I guess not many have seen it.

But before it made sense to me that I was writing for Rukmini Krishna in a modern timeline, Bhaishmi was just a girl in my idea until it struck me after writing the first two chapters that I am writing it on them.

Now I wasn't even going to post it first. Weeks before I posted Train to Vrindavan I had just casually said here that once I had written a story on my phone about a girl meeting Krishna on a train with him in modern clothes and them being friends and having fun. I had received a lot of messages after that to post it here.

English is a limiting language or maybe I lacked in finding a proper tag or word to put these stories under it. If you see my other stories they are all inspired from gopis and classical dance pieces based on Krishna (I have even mentioned the names and dance productions). Not all the content in those dance pieces are true events that happen in Krishna's story and since these Krishna stories are majorly inspired from them, I thought that the best category would be 'Fics' since the scenes fictitious, not Krishna. If you have a better word for it, please do suggest me so I shall gladly make changes.

Now about Krishna x reader. You aren't wrong. Wrote it a year ago and I had even removed the tag once because Bhaishmi isn't a 'reader' but tumblr never let me find those posts many a times. I had tagged it to find these later on because sometimes I wouldn't find my own posts here to save or record which parts or scenes I had written. The tag is for me to find them. I still don't find them sometimes until I sit for hours and locate them again. Jo dikhta hai voh bikta hai toh I agree ki for anybody else it would appear as if I am treating as a normal character. Well I think I tried explaining it...?

And now that you have talked to me about it, for any future readers who stumble across it, it's modern Krishna Rukmini. You might wonder why I didn't edit it later then? I have been busy with too many things last year and tumblr glitches my posts half of the time. I didn't have the patience to search them again and edit it. My exams end in June. I already had plans to edit them after exams.

And yes, I am a Krishna devotee myself. Many of my friends who have read that series as well as the other stories are Krishna devotees too. If you feel inappropriate and offensive, I apologize for it. I have mentioned everything about those two series and thank you for sending a polite ask. Some literally start off with abusive words.

#samridhi speaks

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thesocialorgan · 2 years ago

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JYOTI RAO PHULE DEATH ANNIVERSARY

Jyotirao Govindrao Phule, conjointly referred to as sage Jyotiba Phule (11 April 1827 – 28 Nov 1890) was associate Indian social activist, thinker, anti-caste social reformer and author from geographic area. His work extended to several fields, together with destruction of untouchability and also the class structure and for his efforts in educating girls and burdened caste folks.He and his partner, Savitribai Phule, were pioneers of women's education in Asian nation.Phule started his initial college for women in 1848 in Pune at Tatyasaheb Bhide's residence or Bhidewada. He, at the side of his followers, shaped the Satyashodhak Samaj (Society of Truth Seekers) to realize equal rights for folks from lower castes. folks from all religions and castes may become a neighborhood of this association that worked for the upliftment of the burdened categories. Phule is considered a very important figure within the social front in geographic area. He was given with honorific Mahātmā (Sanskrit: "great-souled", "venerable") title by Maharashtrian social activist Vithalrao Krishnaji Vandekar in 1888.

Jyotirao Phule was born in Pune in 1827 to a family that belonged to the African nation caste.The Malis historically worked as fruit and vegetable growers: within the four-fold group system of caste hierarchy, they were placed among the Shudras.Phule was named when God Jyotiba. He was born on the day of Jyotiba's annual truthful.Phule's family, antecedently named Gorhe, had its origins within the village of Katgun, close to the city of Satara.[14] Phule's great-grandfather, UN agency had worked there as a chaughula, or low-ranking village official, moved to Khanwadi in Pune district. There, his solely son, Shetiba, brought the family into poorness. The family, as well as 3 sons, moved to Poona seeking employment.[10][14] The boys were taken underneath the wing of a florist UN agency instructed them the secrets of the trade. Their proficiency in growing and transcription became renowned and that they adopted the name Phule (flower-man) in situ of Gorhe.Their fulfillment of commissions from the Peshwa, Baji Rao II, for flower mattresses and different merchandise for the rituals and ceremonies of the royal court thus affected him that he granted them thirty five acres of land on the idea of the inam system, whereby no tax would be owed upon it.The oldest brother machinated to require sole management of the property, exploit the younger 2 siblings, Jyotirao Phule's father, Govindrao, to continue farming and additionally flower-selling.

Govindrao married Chimnabai and had 2 sons, of whom Jyotirao was the youngest. Chimnabai died before he was aged one. The African nation community didn't make space for abundant by education, and when attending elementary school to find out the fundamentals of reading, writing, and arithmetic, Jyotirao was withdrawn from college. He joined the menfolk of his family at work, each within the search and therefore the farm. However, a person from an equivalent African nation caste as Phule recognised his intelligence and persuaded Phule's father to permit Phule to attend the native Scottish Mission highschool. Phule completed his English schooling in 1847. As was customary, he was married young, at the age of thirteen, to a woman of his own community, chosen by his father.

The turning purpose in his life was in 1848, once he attended the marriage of a Brahmin friend. Phule participated within the customary wedding procession, however was later chastened and affronted by his friend's oldsters for doing that. They told him that he being from a Shudra caste ought to have had the sense to stay far from that ceremony. This incident deeply affected Phule on the injustice of the class structure.

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srividyasadhak · 9 days ago

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#spiritual development #spirituality #tantra #devi #guru #lalitha #parvati #spiritual awakening #srividya #spiritualgrowth

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livesanskrit · 8 months ago

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Send from Sansgreet Android App. Sanskrit greetings app from team @livesanskrit .

It's the first Android app for sending @sanskrit greetings. Download app from https://livesanskrit.com/sansgreet

Jyotirao Govindrao Phule.

Jyotirao Govindrao Phule (11 April 1827 – 28 November 1890) was an Indian social activist, thinker, anti-caste social reformer and writer from Maharashtra. His work extended to many fields, including eradication of untouchability and the caste system and for his efforts in educating women and oppressed caste people. He and his wife, Savitribai Phule, were pioneers of women's education in India. Phule started his first school for girls in 1848 in Pune at Tatyasaheb Bhide's residence or Bhidewada. He, along with his followers, formed the Satyashodhak Samaj (Society of Truth Seekers) to attain equal rights for people from lower castes. People from all religions and castes could become a part of this association which worked for the upliftment of the oppressed classes. Phule is regarded as an important figure in the social reform movement in Maharashtra. He was bestowed with honorific Mahātmā (Sanskrit: "great-souled", "venerable") title by Maharashtrian social activist Vithalrao Krishnaji Vandekar in 1888.

#sansgreet #sanskritgreetings #greetingsinsanskrit #sanskritquotes #sanskritthoughts #emergingsanskrit #sanskrittrends #trendsinsanskrit #livesanskrit #sanskritlanguage #sanskritlove #sanskritdailyquotes #sanskritdailythoughts #sanskrit #resanskrit #celebratingsanskrit #jyotiraophule #jyotiraophulejayanti #jyotirao #phule #socialactivist #thinker #socialreformer #anticaste #activist #maharashtra #untouchability #savitribaiphule #satyashodaksamaj #pune

#greetingsinsanskrit #sanskritgreetings #sanskrittrends #trendsinsanskrit #livesanskrit #sanskrit #celebratingsanskrit #incredibleindia

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marauderstar · 7 months ago

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Hi... I asked this prompt. Thank you for taking your time to write this amazing piece. It is lovely. The piece is enchanting. However, in my limited understanding, I comprehended it until Arjun accompanies Krishnaji to Guru Sandipini.

What happens after that? Did Duryodhan and Karna's affinity towards each other prevented the war?? Why was Arjuna so clueless? What about the Canon echoes??

Hello there anon, and thank you for the prompt! I got so excited with this I accidentally posted your ask without answering it (I'm so sorry😭😭) so I'm afraid I have to use a screenshot. I hope you like reading this!

Character Swap - Arjuna and Karna

Phalguna comes to Kuntidesha as it always does, but this year the air is colder, and the soil is wet with rain. The ponds are full and even rivers flow swifter, for Indra turns his eye upon them.

Princess Pritha bears the last few weeks of her womanly toil with ill grace; she is yet sixteen, face perpetually wrinkled in agony. The King of Gods has promised her maidenhood, Pritha thinks she would have given that up to be rid of this soreness.

When her time comes one cloudy eve, her trusted maid kneels by her screaming self, and snips the cord off a divine child.

The babe is soft and beautiful, with her looks and her smile and her curled hair; he yawns in restless sleep like a little dark moon. Pritha’s head is bent in prayer, her still-young heart is numb. She is a princess of two noble Kings, a star in the darkness of Āryavarta. Few women have her fortune, even lesser have her power, and yet she is just another girl, at the mercy of sages and gods, and the thought makes Pritha's head bow lower.

She stands by the raging Aswa as her maid gently sets the basket afloat, for foolish she may be, but cruelty comes only through her orders, and never by her hand, and the sky shatters with thunder and rain. Of all the recipients of Indra’s wrath, there has never been one more tragic.

His father from his heavenly throne names the child Arjuna, swears to guide and lead and bestow divine counsel, but as songs later let us know: he is ever known by his mothers’ names, for he is Rādha and Pritha's son.

Karna is born the last of Kunti’s sons, and the third of Pāndu’s scions. He comes into the world like a shining light, with her face and her smile and her curls in his hair. For the first few weeks, Kunti cannot bear to look at the babe, and nurses him with her eyes to the sky. The sun shines upon them, bright and reprimanding, and Kunti wills Surya to chastise his own brother.

To Mādri she says, and to a concerned Pāndu, that the birth tired her, to the child she murmurs tales of a long-lost brother.

“He looked just like you,” Kunti tells him, as Karna swings in his cradle. It is a rickety thing, old as Yudhisthira, and worn with Bheema’s fervour, but it is a cradle still, and Kunti wonders if her other son ever knew one.

“I think you would have loved him,” Kunti says, wistfully, weaving dreams out of her yearning. “He would have been your big brother.”

The boy in the cradle coos at her, toothless smile lighting up the world, and for a moment his face is dark, and outside it rains, and the babe in her arms is Indra’s child.

“You are terrible,” Arjuna scowls at Duryodhana, even though his father has taken great pains to counsel him otherwise. “He is just having fun.”

Duryodhana turns an interesting shade of purple. “His fun involves beating up my brothers and acting innocent when Pitāmaha asks him about it.”

Arjuna has no reason to defend this new prince, one whom he has never seen nor met, but his mouth betrays him once more. “That is not a good enough reason to kill him. You are merely jealous.”

“Kill whom?” says a voice, and Arjuna nigh jumps out of his skin as a boy swings down from the mango tree.

“Karna,” Duryodhana sighs. “Are you troubling the squirrels again?”

“No,” the boy says, shoving his fist behind his back. He is barely five and... light; his eyes are light and honey-brown, his hair is the light of sunshine on tree-barks, and his face glows like day. “You’re going to kill my brother,” he repeats stubbornly.

Arjuna blinks; his father would not forgive him for this.

Duryodhana sighs once more. “Your brother is beating mine up.”

“I will tell him not to,” Karna promises, and Arjuna is a little sorry for the boy – all wobbling lips and earnest eyes. “I will tell Mother if he does. Please don’t kill him.”

Arjuna expects Duryodhana to say something like ‘Run along, child’ or ‘Do not eavesdrop on your elders’, but the prince has an indulgent, almost fond look on his face.

“Give me that,” he says, pointing at the hand Karna has behind his back. Arjuna thinks it a cruel thing to ask, then the boy reluctantly brings out a bursting handful of areca nuts, and Arjuna has to laugh.

Duryodhana smiles as well, plucks one of the six in his hand. Karna drops two others, and as he bends to retrieve his fallen treasures, Duryodhana ruffles his hair.

“Run along now, little scamp,” the Kaurava prince says.

“Are you going to kill him?” Karna asks, eyes wide and worried.

“No,” Duryodhana assures him, “but remember what we agreed, yes?”

Karna beams at them, one after the other. “I will! See you.”

With that, he is gone.

Duryodhana cracks the nut and hands half of it to Arjuna – sinfully possessive one moment, impossibly generous the next.

Arjuna gapes at him. “Are you really not going to kill Bheem?”

Duryodhana glowers at him. “Go lay an egg,” he says, rudely, and stalks off. Arjuna stares at his retreating back, confused.

But no news comes that day, or the next, or any of the weeks after, and slowly, Arjuna learns to breathe easier.

“Who is that?” Krishna asks.

Karna starts, he has not been paying attention. Krishna is the scion of faraway Dwārika, and not much of an acquaintance in any manner of the term, although the dark haired prince claims he has hardly ever been outside Vrindāvan, and never to the city by the sea.

“Pardon me,” Karna says, contrite, “whom do you speak of?”

“That boy,” says Krishna, and points towards a lone figure lurking by the stables.

“That is Arjuna. His father is Pitāmaha's charioteer.”

“May I speak to him?”

“Excuse me,” Karna hails the older boy, “can you spare a moment?”

Arjuna appears at his side, all muddy fringes and stiff bows. “Greetings, princes.”

“Greetings,” Karna nods. “This is Krishna, my cousin. Krishna, Arjuna.”

Krishna is tall and dark, his young face beams with pleasure. “How do you do, Pārtha?”

Arjuna blinks. “Uh... I am not called that. My mother’s name is Rādha.”

Krishna gives him a secret smile, and waves at someone above his head. Karna, distracted by a squirrel, nearly misses it.

“Duryodhana?” he says, delighted, when he notices the other boy on the balcony. “Come down, come down.”

Krishna shakes his arm. “Perhaps, the four of us can go to the garden?”

Sometime later, the four of them are seated around a bush, shears in hand. The rose shrub is not big enough to make a topiary out of, but Queen Gandhari has arranged tables around it with the hopes of giving the boys a more fruitful pastime to channel their excitement into.

“And what should I do?”

Arjuna is seated beside Krishna, facing the others. Duryodhana picks up his shears and snips a stray leaf. “We have to make this appear smooth and shapely.”

“Why?”

Karna stares at him. “Because Aunt Gandhari says so, of course.”

Krishna pulls his legs up on the bench, lifts a fist to the air. “Let’s dooo it!”

For the next couple of hours they work diligently, or at least pretend to, for Duryodhana starts kicking Karna under the bench, and Karna kicks him back, and it is an entertaining game; Krishna, meanwhile, shows Arjuna how and where to snip – he has clever eyes, and his hands are dexterous.

When they finally leave, one side of the bush poorer than the other, Krishna swings his hands around his new friend’s shoulders and lags behind the two princes. “You were saying Guru Drona does not want to teach you?”

Arjuna flushes. “That is true. It is er... his choice, of course, no disrespect intended.”

Krishna’s eyes twinkle. “Dau and I are going to study with Guru Sāndīpani. Do you wish to come with?”

Arjuna chances a glance at Karna, barely jealous, but there still. “I think I would like that.”

“Can we not do this here?” Arjuna hisses. His father looks over from the garden where he and Rādha Mā are talking to Lord Bhishma, and Arjuna is afraid.

“Come now,” Duryodhana groans. “We are settling it man to man, just as Pitāmaha wanted. What is wrong now?”

Arjuna glances at the Pāndava brothers, aching with the weight of Anga’s crown and the knowledge of the Jatugrīha. “Why am I a part of this conversation?”

Yudhisthira coughs politely, as he is wont to. It gets on Arjuna's nerves like nothing else. “If you will excuse me,” he says, “we must greet our mother.”

The Pāndavas glance up as one, and Arjuna notices Dowager Empress Kunti hurrying down the steps.

“Mother,” Karna and Sahadeva exclaim excitably and there is a flurry of motion as they settle down to accept their blessings. To his surprise, Duryodhana follows, and he is compelled to join in the flock.

“There you are, darling,” Kunti says, pulling him up, then freezes.

Something old and forgotten stirs within Arjuna – a shadow of a memory, a wisp of a dream, a woman still as a flame with a child in her arms. Mother, he nearly says, ancient words soaring to his mouth, the shapes of them lingering on his tongue. Mother, look what we have brought home.

Then the Grandfather joins them and the moment is gone.

His father throws him a disapproving glance, and Arjuna shrinks from the princes. His mother, though, is staring at Karna.

“Vāsu...?” she whispers, as if to a ghost, and Karna turns.

“Yes, Mā?”

“His name is Karna,” Bheema declares loudly, and glares at them. The prince has not yet forgiven Arjuna’s stunt at the Graduation, even if Karna claims he would have done the same.

Radha Mā looks flustered, and Karna shifts in discomfort, as if put on a stage for a part he does not know how to play. Adhiratha grabs Arjuna and wraps an arm around his wife.

“Please forgive her, Prince,” he says, and starts pulling them away. “By your leave...”

Arjuna supposes they have embarrassed his father enough. His mother walks as if in a trance. “Vāsu?” she murmurs under her breath. “Vāsusena... child, where are you gone?”

Arjuna, alarmed, turns one last time. Karna is miserable and bewildered, staring after Rādha like a lost child, and Kunti's eyes, seeking him, are wet with tears.

Arjuna sits silent and still, horror trembling beneath his skin like a fluttering bird.

“Duryodhana, please...” Arjuna whispers, unsure of what he begs, and fearful of the prince's wrath.

“I bet my brother, Karna,” Yudhisthira says, drunk on dharma and shivering with repentance. “If I win, I shall have him and all that is on the board; if you do, then he is yours.”

Karna looks up, stunned. There is betrayal on his face, and Arjuna’s heart stings. Even Duryodhana frowns, for Karna alone of all his cousins he names a friend.

“As you say,” Shakuni shrugs, and rolls his dice. “Lo! I win!”

Karna rises from his seat without being asked, walks over to kneel beside his brothers. His mien is smooth and calm now, all torment shielded behind a mask, but Bheema leaps up, enraged.

“Brother!” he tells Yudhisthira, “Hear me! Cease this madness before you lose all else.”

“I cannot leave them to this fate, Bheema,” Yudhisthira says, and picks the dice again. “I stake Bheema.”

“No, wait,” Duryodhana says, brows furrowed. “Māmāshree, do not bet now.”

The two players look up.

“No more?” Yudhisthira repeats slowly, as if he thought this game would go on forever, till the last brother was staked, and perhaps his wife and mother as well.

“Are you sure, my dear?” Shakuni asks.

Duryodhana ignores both of them, strides over to Karna. “Come with me.”

“I shall split your head open,” Bheema roars from beside Yudhisthira. “Leave him alone.”

“I won him,” Duryodhana reminds him coldly, “and I would that he comes with me.”

Karna rises with a grace that startles Arjuna, no longer the clumsy middle prince who dropped things, just like he is no longer a charioteer's dutiful son.

“I will go,” he says, and Yudhisthira turns to the court at large. “Please forgive my brother’s outburst.”

Arjuna wants to slap him.

Duryodhana wraps an arm around Karna's shoulders, and steers him to the doors. For a moment it appears that Bheema would follow, but then the Kaurava prince dismisses the guards, and they step just outside, far enough so no one can overhear whispers, but near enough that they are seen, and a fuming Bheema sits back down.

Arjuna sits and waits for a long time, like all others at court, even the blind Emperor, who can never walk without his son, and thinks miserably of how much Krishna would disapprove.

He is about to join them, either to pacify or to add fuel to the fire, when Karna speaks, loud and sarcastic enough to be heard all over the court. “I loved it. I loved it so much I am going to write a play about it, and have actors sent to perform it all over Āryavarta. Why, I should- ”

Duryodhana catches his flailing hands, shushes him. They whisper once more. The blind Emperor swivels his head in apparent confusion. Arjuna gets up to intervene.

Then Duryodhana walks in, a furious Karna in tow.

Arjuna seizes him by the arm. “Let them go, Duryodhana,” he pleads. “Do not do this.”

His patron and friend...? looks at him quietly for a long time, so long that Arjuna very nearly reaches for his bow.

Dhritarashtra, for once in his life, takes the cue. “Court is dismissed,” he calls, and the ordeal is over.

“You have counselled me wisely,” Duryodhana says at last. “Now, and before. It is a shame that I heeded you not.” Then he raises his head and says aloud, without preamble or explanation, “Let all be returned and restored to the Pāndava princes. Thank you, noble ones, for joining us in this game. We shall retire soon for lunch.”

Two years later, when the knowledge of the game is a rumour, and the incident at Indraprastha's lake is forgotten, Karna comes alone to Hastinapura. Krishna, who is visiting, gives Arjuna one of his secret smiles.

At the gates, Duryodhana meets him stiffly, for things have never been the same between the two sets of cousins. They bow ceremoniously, Dhritarashtra speaks a few half-hearted greetings, and Gandhari fusses over him.

Karna and Duryodhana stare at each other, and then Karna wraps him in a fierce hug.

“You’re not forgiven,” the Pandava prince says, voice muffled, but Arjuna notes Karna's trembling hands and thinks he knows otherwise.

Then, to his surprise, Karna turns to him. Krishna smiles at him again and whispers, “Prepare yourself, Angarāja.”

Before Arjuna can ask him what he means, Karna bows to him and says, “Greetings, brother.”

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2020 Ganesh Chaturthi Festival

This tremendous celebration of Ganesh Chaturthi respects the introduction of the dearest Hindu elephant-headed god, Lord Ganesha, famously venerated for his capacity to evacuate snags and bring favorable luck. The celebration is commended in an open way. Nearby people group rival each other to set up the most amazing Ganesha sculpture and show. Anticipate swarmed avenues, loaded up with disorderly enthusiasts, and heaps of music.

Do take note of that Ganesh celebration festivities are reduced for the current year. While the celebration will in any case proceed, the size of icons has been diminished and they will be inundated in fake lakes without open parades.

An outline clarifying Ganesh celebrations

TripSavvy/Lara Antal

Ganesh Chaturthi Festival Dates

The celebration happens late August or early September, contingent upon the pattern of the moon. It falls on the fourth day after the new moon in the Hindu month of Bhadrapada. In 2020, Ganesh Chaturthi is on August 22. The celebration reaches out more than 10 days with the greatest display occurring on the most recent day called Anant Chaturdashi, which falls on September 1, 2020.

Discover when is Ganesh Chaturthi in future years.

Where is it Celebrated?

The celebration is generally celebrated in the territory of Maharashtra, where it began as an open celebration in the city of Pune over 125 years prior. In spite of the fact that there is banter over who began it there (Sardar Krishnaji Khasgiwale, political dissident Bhausaheb Rangari or political dissident Lokmanya Tilak), its primary object was to bring individuals of various classes and stations together to join them against the British principle. The symbol at Dagdusheth Halwai Ganpati sanctuary in Budhwar Peth is well known and authentic.

Festivities have spread to different states including Goa, Tamil Nadu, Karnataka, Telangana, and Andhra Pradesh.

See photographs of Ganesh celebration festivities in India.

Probably the best spot to encounter the celebration is in Mumbai. It happens in an uncommon manner at the transcending Siddhivinayak sanctuary, arranged in the focal south Mumbai neighborhood of Prabhadevi, which is committed to Lord Ganesha. An inestimable number of lovers visit the sanctuary to participate in supplications and offer their appreciation to the God during the celebration. Likewise, around 10,000 sculptures of Lord Ganesh are shown at different areas over the city. The parade and inundation of the sculptures on the most recent day is epic! This is what you have to think about the Ganesh celebration in Mumbai.

Ganesh celebration in Mumbai.

Sharell Cook

How is it Celebrated?

The celebration starts with the establishment of tremendous intricately created rules of Ganesha in homes and platform, which have been extraordinarily built and perfectly enhanced. Craftsmans put a very long time of exertion into making the sculptures. It's illegal to take a gander at the moon on this first night as legend had it the moon snickered at Lord Ganesha when he tumbled from his vehicle, the rodent. On Anant Chaturdashi (the most recent day), the sculptures are strutted through the lanes, joined by much singing and moving, and afterward submerged in the sea or different waterways. In Mumbai alone, in excess of 150,000 sculptures are drenched every year!

Perceive how sculptures are made for the Ganesh celebration in Mumbai.

What Rituals are Performed?

When a sculpture of Lord Ganesh is introduced, a service is embraced to summon his blessed nearness into the sculpture. This custom is known as the Prana Pratishtha, during which various mantras are recounted. Following this, an uncommon love function is performed. Contributions of desserts, blossoms, rice, coconut, jaggery, and coins are made to the God. The sculpture is additionally blessed with red Chandan powder. Supplications are offered to Lord Ganesha consistently during the celebration. Sanctuaries dedicated to Lord Ganesha additionally arrange uncommon occasions and supplications. The individuals who have a Ganesha sculpture in their home treat and care for him as a much-adored visitor.

Indian enthusiasts commending the most recent day of the Gansesha Chaturhi (Gansesha celebration) along the Yamuna stream. On the this last day of the celebration, a large number of mortar icons are submerged into waterways.

Picture by WMay/Getty Images

For what reason are the Ganesh Statues Immersed in Water toward the End of the Festival?

Hindus love icons, or sculptures, of their divine beings since it gives them an obvious structure to appeal to. They likewise perceive that the universe is in a steady condition of progress. Structure in the long run offers away to amorphousness. Be that as it may, the vitality despite everything remains. The drenching of the sculptures in the sea, or different waterways, and ensuing decimation of them fills in as a token of this conviction. It instructs that everything is brief throughout everyday life and that it's occasionally important to relinquish things we love.

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