#hindu history

[teaandsunlighttt]

It's okay Arjun i too question the necessity of doing my job when I'm just about to start doing it-

[hindupunk]

Barbaric islamic invaders who burnt hindu books.

tw: communists please don't get hurt while reading this.

It was the common policy of Islamic invaders to destroy & BURN Hindu/Buddhist/Jain books & libraries to decimate Dharmic knowledge systems. From Allauddin Khilji who burnt the famous library at Anhalwara Pattan to Firoz Shah Tughluq who burnt the library at Kohana down to Aurangzeb who burnt Hindu books wherever he got the chance.

We know Nalanda's 9-storied Ratnadadhi library was reduced to rubble by Bakhtiyar Khalji. But an even bigger library existed at the Odantapuri Vihara which contained a vast amount of Hindu & Buddhist manuscripts. Odantapuri is specifically mentioned as being destroyed & burnt by Khalji's general Mohammed Bin Sam in Islamic primary source Tabaqat e Nasiri of Minhaj ul Siraj. Odanatpuri's library & complex was much bigger than even Nalanda or Bodh Gaya.

The legacy of Islamic invaders in India is full of violent destruction, decimation & horror designed to uproot the entire foundation of Indic civilization. The J!h-ad1 Ghazi mode of operation was always to destroy knowledge never embrace it.

[latent-thoughts]

The wait is over...

Shree Ram is coming home...

500 years of oppression, suppression, struggle, agitation, tears, mourning, resilience, and most importantly, hope and faith.

I've only seen about 35 years of it, but I've seen enough to know how important this day is for us Hindus. Here's why my mutuals are seeing this on their dash.

Today, Shree Ram, who's the 7th Avatar of our God Vishnu, will finally return to his birthplace in the ancient city of Ayodhya--the place where the original temple dedicated to him had stood for millennia. That temple had been demolished and desecrated on command of an Islamic invader called Babar in 1528, and a mosque was built atop its ruins. Hence the 500 year struggle to reclaim it, which reached a critical point when the mosque was finally demolished in 1992.

The process to reclaim this sacred place and rebuild the temple was no walk in the park. The issue went up to the Supreme Court of India, the highest court in the country, and finally, after the favourable verdict, the construction of the temple started in May 2020.

Today, Shree Ram Chandra, the righteous, just and kind king who ruled Ayodhya thousands of years ago, returns home. It's not just an event of religious importance, it's a day of civilizational and cultural importance.

We're reclaiming our heritage.

Jai Shree Ram!

Happy Dwitiya Diwali!

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[yourfavanxioussunshine]

[kaze-no-yurei]

We are now faced with a massive propaganda alleging Hindu persecution of Buddhism. Let us study one example: the story of alleged Hindu persecution of Buddhism by Pushyamitra, a general in the service of the declining Maurya dynasty, who founded the Sunga dynasty after a coup détat. This story provides the standard secularist refutation of the myth that Hinduism has always been tolerant.

The Marxist historian Gargi Chakravartty writes:

"Another myth has been meticulously promoted with regard to the tolerance of the Hindu rulers. Let us go back to the end of second century B.C. Divyavadana, in a text of about the second-third century A.D., depicts Pushyamitra Shunga as a great persecutor of Buddhists. In a crusading march with a huge army he destroyed stupas, burnt monasteries and killed monks. This stretched up to Shakala, i.e. modern Sialkot, where he announced a reward of 100 gold coins to the person who would bring the head of a Buddhist monk. Even if this is an exaggeration, the acute hostility and tensions between Pushyamitra and the monks cannot be denied."

We need not comment on Chakravartty's misreading of Divyavadana as a person's name rather than a book title. Remark the bias in the assumption that the supposedly undeniable conflict between the king and the monks proves the kings intolerance; for what had been their own contribution to the conflict? There is no good reason why the Buddhist monks should, by contrast, be assumed to be blameless when they came in conflict with a king.

The story is in fact given in two near contemporaneous (2nd century A.D.) Buddhist histories, the Asokavadana and the Divyavadana, the two narratives are almost verbatim the same and very obviously have a common origin. This non-contemporary story (which surfaces more than three centuries after the alleged facts) about Pushyamitra's offering money for the heads of Buddhist monks is rendered improbable by external evidence: the well-attested historical fact that he allowed and patronized the construction of monasteries and Buddhist universities in his domains, as well as the still extant stupa of Sanchi. After Ashoka's lavish sponsorship of Buddhism, it is perfectly possible that Buddhist institutions fell on slightly harder times under the Sungas, but persecution is quite another matter. The famous historian of Buddhism Etienne Lamotte has observed: To judge from the documents, Pushyamitra must be acquitted through lack of proof.

In consulting the source texts a significant literary fact is noticed which has not been seen mentioned in the scholarly literature (e.g. Lamotte, just quoted), and which must put on record. First of all, a look at the critical edition of the Asokavadana (Illustrious Acts of Ashoka) tells a story of its own concerning the idealization of Buddhism in modern India.

This is how Sujit Kumar Mukhopadhyaya, the editor of the Asokavadana, relates this work's testimony about Ashoka doing to a rival sect that very thing of which Pushyamitra is accused later on:

"At that time, an incident occurred which greatly enraged the king. A follower of the Nirgrantha (Mahavira) painted a picture, showing Buddha prostrating himself at the feet of the Nirgrantha. Ashoka ordered all the Ajivikas of Pundravardhana (North Bengal) to be killed. In one day, eighteen thousand Ajivikas lost their lives. A similar kind of incident took place in the town of Pataliputra. A man who painted such a picture was burnt alive with his family. It was announced that whoever would bring to the king the head of a Nirgrantha would be rewarded with a dinara (a gold coin). As a result of this, thousands of Nirgranthas lost their lives. Only when Vitashoka, Ashoka's favourite Arhat (an enlightened monk, a Theravada-Buddhist saint), was mistaken for a Nirgrantha and killed by a man desirous of the reward, did Ashoka revoke the order."

Typically, Mukhopadhyaya refuses to believe his eyes at this demythologization of the secular emperor Ashoka:

"This is one of the best chapters of the text. The subject, the style, the composition, everything here is remarkable. In every shloka there is a poetic touch.( ... ) But the great defect is also to be noticed. Here too Ashoka is described as dreadfully cruel. If the central figure of this story were not a historic personage as great and well-known as Ashoka, we would have nothing to say. To say that Ashoka, whose devotion to all religious sects is unique in the history of humanity (as is well-known through his edicts) persecuted the Jains or the Ajivikas is simply absurd. And why speak of Ashoka alone? There was no Buddhist king anywhere in India who persecuted the Jains or the Ajivikas or any other sect."

Contrary to Mukhopadhyayas confident assertion, there are a few attested cases of Buddhist-Jain conflict. The Mahavamsa says that the Buddhist king Vattagamini in Sri Lanka destroyed a Jain vihara. In the Shravana-Belgola epitaph of Mallishena, the Jain teacher Akalanka says that after a successful debate with Buddhists, he broke a Buddha statue with his own foot. The same (rare, but not non-existent) phenomenon of Buddhist fanaticism can be found outside India: the introduction of Buddhism in Tibet and Mongolia is associated with a forceful suppression of the native Shamanism. In recent decades in Sri Lanka, Buddhist monks have been instrumental in desecrating and demolishing Hindu temples. None of this proves that Buddhist doctrine incites its followers to persecution of non-Buddhists, but neither should anything human be considered alien to Buddhist human beings.

[kanhapriya]

Prahlad was the og daddy issues wala boy

[forgotten-bharat]

Meenakshi Jain on Ahilya Bai Holkar

(x)

[sexypinkon]

Sexypink - From the Facebook page of Niala DB

On this Indian Arrival Day (May 30th 2023),  I present you with original artwork- temple murals - from the Indentured ancestors which have been preserved on the walls of the Moose Bhagat Hindu Temple, George Village Tableland. This religious and once tribally-important building was constructed by Pundit Mahandat Moose Bhagat Dass in 1904 and is preserved by his descendants, although it seems the pundit line is no more. This temple is written as being the second oldest in the Caribbean ( I do not have the facts to confirm this).  

I don't share DNA with this possible ancestor-in law, but I thought the journey worthwhile. I feel I see a Bhagat clan resemblance in the faded photo of Moose but, that might just be wishful thinking. It was a joy to behold the art of the ancient Indentured from India. I wonder how old were the artists?  

May they all continue to sleep in peace, giants they once were.

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[academicallyahead]

Happy Navratri!

Let’s celebrate these 9 days as a period of divine teachings, where each day brings us closer to understanding the true essence of life.

May her blessings shine upon you, filling your heart with peace and your home with happiness

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[murli-kii-dhun]

Source : Page 5, Vishnu Purana; Translated by Bibek Debroy; First published in Penguin Books by Penguin Random House India 2022

[kaze-no-yurei]

One of the diversionary tactics employed by the eminent historians in order to shield Islamic iconoclasm from the public eye is to allege that Hinduism itself is the guilty religion, of persecuting minority religions such as Buddhism. So much is this accusation now taken for granted, that any attempt to stick to the historical record fills the secularists with exasperation at such Hindu fanatical blindness.

Sadly, some Buddhists have taken the bait and interiorized this line of anti-Hindu polemic, which also ties in neatly with the pro-Buddhist bias in Nehruvian and Western Indology. How painfully ungrateful. While Hinduism has received from Islam nothing but murder and destruction, Buddhism owes a lot to Hinduism. Apart from its very existence, it has received from Hinduism toleration, alms by Hindu laymen, sons and daughters of Hindus to fill its monasteries and nunneries, land grants and funding by Hindu rulers, protection by Hindu rulers against lawlessness and against the Islamic invaders between the mid-7th and the late 12th century. In many cases, Buddhist temples formed part of large pluralist temple-complexes, and Hindu codes of art and architecture dealt with Buddha on a par with Shiva and other objects of depiction and worship.

[kanhapriya]

A KRISHNA SAKHI

But she'd still love him.

(Please listen to the song on a loop while reading)

2. Pratiksha

There were many ways in which he came to her.

Like the breeze, gentle and delicate and soothing as if he understood that nothing could bring her the feeling of solace that he did. Nothing but him was that serene to live.

He also came like the rain, dropping all over her body, places where she would only ever allow him, no one else. Like the rain, he carried an attractive melancholic ambience with him, just like the rain, he was erratic and captivating. Like the rain, he brought with him a distinct scent.

Sometimes, he was in the sunny sky, painful to bear but beautiful nonetheless. Like he was the giver of life and death, glowing so luminous for the whole world and somehow still just a sliver of his real light is perceptible to her.

The soil, he for sure was a part of. He'd let people walk on him but when it was too much, he halted his stillness and responded to what was must. He bore so much life, that no one could exist without him, his essence and true personality.

 

Moon too was just him in guise. When the moonlight would glow in her dark chamber, a small part of the room would light up. Those places were the ones he'd always sit on.

Her soul was him, a part of him. He was her himself. She knew he was every part of her, her mind, her heart, her body, her soul and all her features. He was her flowing hair, her black kohl and her sharp nose. He was her.

But her favourite way of him coming to her was when he was her Kanha, her Keshav.

He'd come to her in so many forms, yet Krishna was the one she could never oppose. 

In the form of Krishna, he met her so many times and never at the same time. He was Krishna but not the one she'd see in the crowd, not the one he'd see with Maiya Yashoda or Nand Baba or even Balram Dau. Not even his companions, or other girlfriends. He'd come to her like a Krishna she had never seen before and it stunned her each time.

He was blissful, ecstatic and euphoric all together when he came to her. As Krishna, when he'd step into her room through the window with his lotus-like feet, freshly smeared allta, she knew he'd leave behind traces, few more seeable than others.

When he'd come to her, Pratiksha would accept him in any form.

His hands would grip the periphery of her window on such nights, and she'd keep looking at him with learning eyes, how he must have lied to Maiya Yashoda about going out with his boyfriends. She'd look at him with mischievousness as he would hold the window for dear life.

"Sakhi, help me at least?" He would say out of weariness when sweat would wet his hair and he'd have to toil to keep them off his hair. Then he'd shake the sweat away, looking so lovely that she'd let him struggle. 

However, when he'd bumble a bit too much for even her liking, she'd approach him, slowly, a little tormenting retribution, out of pure devotion. She'd hold his hand, his fingers enveloped all around her wrist as he burdened her with his weight and finally climbed up her room.

After she pulled him up, he'd collapse just on her, not even allowing her to breathe, and she'd laugh the loudest she was allowed to without waking her parents. Sometimes she thought all of it was just a play to him, so she'd help him up and he'd catch her in his arms.

"Kanha, I'll die " she'd try to push him up as he just rested, "I'm too young right now."

"But Sakhi, " he would fake taking deep breaths.  "I'm too tired to move now."

"Come on, oh Nathkhat," she'd finally breathe ad he would lift some of his weight off  "Thank the lord, Narayana,"

He'd grumbled whenever she'd take the name of Lord Narayana, along the lines of, 'Literally in front of you,' but she would pay no heed to him.

When he finally stood up, he'd make himself relaxed on her bed, laying on it like a starfish, his exquisite redolence, colouring her room. She'd go and sit next to him, and using her chunri, she'd wipe the sweat off his forehead. He'd close his eyes but a smile would be present on his face.

He'd hold her wrist and stop the whole wiping thing after a while, "Come on now, Sakhi," he'd sit up, her wrist still in his hand, "I'm not here get coddled," he would roll his eyes, "Or I would've stayed with Dau or even Maiya."

She'd snatch back her hand, a smile threatening to come over but she hid.

"Then Why Are you here?"

"You tell me."

"Tell you what?" Her brows would turn up and he would ever so gently lift his fingers and ease them. Then she'd smile.

"Tell me, why do you let me in?" He would stand up from the bed then, and approach her dressing space, a small hand mirror placed there that he would pick up and make the moonlight reflect on her face, "Why do you let me trouble you almost every consecutive day?" 

She'd look at him, and he would raise his brows in question, and then She'd blush and look away at the moon every time.

"I let you in because-" she knew it was impossible to find the right answer to his inquiries, no matter how straightforward they were.

What could possibly be the reason if not him?

His smile, his complexion, his existence. Weren't they good enough reasons? Would she have to answer to the world as to why she would allow a not-so-ordinary cowherd boy into her room in the dead of night? Would she have to prove to the world her intentions to protect her laaj?

But those had been secondary issues then, Krishna being her prime. And She'd endure all the world's allegations if it went to be in his presence for a small while. 

"I let you in because I'm selfish." She'd answered truthfully, not caring if it would make her seem wrong. She was selfish enough to want him but it was the most selfless she'd ever been.

He'd look confused, though with a hint of mischief in his star-like thinking eyes, "Selfish?" 

Then he would approach her again, the mirror still in his hands as would sit in front of her, "I'd say, it's quite the opposite." He would raise his hands and tuck a stray piece of hand behind her ears, "Isn't it so, Sakhi? It's selfless."

She'd keep looking at him, the beauty of his beetle eyes capturing her into the slow trap he'd set up.

"It's love."

She'd not blink, how could she?  He would be in front of her and she'd be sinned if even a second was spent without his glimpse.

Her voice would be lost too, the thirst of her throat for water or words, she wasn't sure but she'd desperately need it.

There would be silence worth a thousand words in those few moments. Just Pratiksha and her love personified as a beautiful blue boy.

"Wouldn't you know so much about love?" There was yet again fun in her tone, something that she'd noticed only happened with him.

"Me?" He'd fake being surprised, "Don't be funny, my mohini. You know love so much better than me."

She'd entwine both their hands and kiss the back of his, the skin so soft and cold yet warm, just like she remembered. 

"Indeed I do." She'd look at him, tears overwhelming in her eyes, "For you are what I think is Love. And I know you,"

He'd smile then, not out of a trick or joke or fun poking but genuine, his tulsi smile, too pure, "Better than me?" He'd ask.

"Better than yourself." She'd nod with firm faith and he'd pull her in his arms and she would allow him, every night.

As she would lay on his chest, he'd soothe her mind with his soft head touches which would often lead to a dismantled hairstyle, but they'd ignore it and open the braid completely. 

Pratiksha would then take the hand mirror from him and keep it at a distance from them so she could not waste even a second by not seeing his face, which would also do wonders for his ego.

"I must say, " he'd say between the silence, "Your Lord Narayana must've blessed me with quite a beautiful counter face."

Till then, she'd be in an already deep trance most would call sleep but she would love. 

With no answer in return, Krishna would turn to the mirror to look at her reflection,  mostly finding her in a euphoric stance. 

He'd then allow himself to turn a little, not moving much but to face her. He'd trace the flower pattern above his eyebrows and on her forehead,  the one he'd only make each morning, before bidding farewell for the day.

It would be a comfortable routine for them, dancing through the day and enjoying a slumber together, with peace and silence. 

The next morning when she would wake up, her kahna would be awake too, mixing the fresh flowers he'd brought somehow, and readying the paint for their faces.

She'd stand up, laziness still deep in her body as she'd approach him, "How do you always wake up before me?"

Only then, he'd notice her presence and try not to laugh at her dishevelled appearance, "You look especially beautiful in the morning, priye."

She would be too tired to get angry at his jokes but just look at him who still looked like a world full of happiness and laughter.

She'd sit next to him on the seating in front of the mirror, looking at the colours he'd prepared.��

"Your hair is a mess, Sakhi, " he'd tug on her open hair, "Come, let me tie them."

She'd keep quiet and let him, as she would snuggle deep into her own embrace, the morning dew making her cold. He'd keep pulling some parts of her hair, braiding them as she'd just feel his fingers all through her hair.

After he'd made the hairstyle, as beautiful as all the waterfalls of the world, he'd turn her around, and bring a wet cloth to her face and wipe away all her sleep and paint from yesterday. 

"What flower do you want today, priye?" He'd pick up the bronze bowl with colour and a peacock feather, "What should I paint today?"

"Do as you wish," she'd look into his big dilated eyes, "I know it will look good."

He'd keep smiling as the peacock feather dipped into the white colour and the flowers and bela he'd start drawing. With each delicate stroke of the top, a petal would be created, and with every six petals, a flower would be complete. Like this, the hours would pass and they would read each other with love, colour and laughter. 

And once again, Pratiksha would be reminded that her favourite way of him coming to her was as Kanha, Krishna. 

The routine existed no more. 

Pratiksha no longer exists.

Neither did her room or her friends. 

Vrindavan too is gone now.

They'd cease to exist the day her Kanha had gone away forever. 

Now what existed wasn't what it used to be.

Vrindavan cried now, every second of her existence was spent with sadness now, her rivers bare, stripped of their waves and joy, her mountains, not stable enough to handle the loss of their favourite cowherd. 

No Gopi in Vrindavan truly smiled anymore. Smiles had faded into frowns just the way day faded into night, slowly, taking its sweet time.

And Pratiksha? She hadn't awakened in months.

She'd spent all her days just like she was right now.

As she lay motionless on her bed, her eyes were finished if all the tears she could hold in her two eyes.

Her heart was beating, not with life but with pain, misery and discontent and as she tried to stand up from the bed, her body gave up. Pratiksha was plagued by memories, plagued by him.

She finally gathered all her might, taking the support of the bed still to reach the window of her room.

The window.

It was still there, unlike him. That Makhan chor wasn't there anymore.

Each night, just like today, she would crawl up to the window still from where he would come to her. And just like today, she looked down there, no sign of him, no sign at all.

She would then sit with the support of the opposite wall, looking at her room, which was filled with him. From the floor to the ceiling to the wall to the flowers by her bed, all was him.

How was one to forget it all?

Now no one would climb up her window late at night, no one would beg her to help him up. No one would pretend to be exhausted and lay on top of her till she begged for mercy. No one would call her Sakhi anymore, not like he did.

She'd wait for him, penance endlessly to see his face again, to hear him laugh and giggle again, to hear the madhurya sound of his flute and hum along it once again. But he said he won't be back ever, that history was waiting for him. And who was Pratiksha to anger the immortal she?

But that didn't mean losing hope, right? No, she'd still wait for him. Wait for him to climb up the window yet again someday, and to call for her with the same amount of immense love. She'd wait till her teeth rot and her skin falls.

But right now, she'd cry tears of a lifetime, because her Keshav was gone.

Now she had to wake up alone, bed empty.  No one was there to caress her cheek, to lovingly stroke her hair and turn them into a mess. Neither would anyone wipe off her tiredness with a bare cloth. No one would be able to love her, no one but Kanha.

She had no one to look at now, through the hand mirror, no one to lay on the chest. No one would calm all her fears with a sleight of hand. No one would ever come close to the experience of him.

She wouldn't allow anyone to, no. Her love was only for Kanha. How dare anyone think that she'd forget her Shyam ever?

Krishna was in her, was her and forgetting herself wasn't a decision she was gonna make. She'd wait for her Kanha to come back one day, a year later, 5 years later, a decade later, a lifetime later. She'd stay.

But hey Narayana, for long would she have to cry for her Kanha? Would he never visit her now? Was that the last time she got to look at his face? Was that the last time she touched him, played with his soft fingers, rested in his lap and braided his long curly hair? Would he be able to live without her for so long? She certainly wouldn’t. 

Even thinking of spending a lifetime without getting lost in his dark beautiful eyes was a sin.

His flute, how would she not hear it at least once again? 

No, this was pure torture, and he was the ever-enjoyer.  She comforted herself with many arguments, one being that this was all a big joke, a text of her prem like he always did. But he had to come back. He had to or she would lose her mind.

Did he expect her to let go of this easily? Wasn't she his priye? Which honoured lover would leave his priye to spend a life long in wanting? No, he was Nirmohan but not to an extent that could kill her. He realised this, right?

Then Why did he cry that day, when he came for the last time? Why was he unable to keep his hands from shaking as he tied her braid with flowers? 'Param Shringar' he had called it, the most beautiful he'd made her ready.

He had painted her hand with the leftover flower and tears. 'It'll stay forever, a reminder of me in case you forget,' he had smiled with tears and kissed her palms, some paint on his lips too.

As she looked at her hand now, the smudged part was still visible after so long, the whole palm filled with colours, black and blue petals and flowers. 

He was gone, wasn't he?

A sob came up again, and Pratiksha didn't try to stop it. She sobbed as much as she could, loud and livid, her head throbbed with pain and exhaustion and nothingness and her Kanha. Where was that boy? Why wasn't he here, with her head in his lap? 

Her eyes longed to look at the face of her Nirmohan, oh how he was living up to the name.

He'd come to her as the breeze, uprooting all her beliefs and taking them away with him. As the wind, he would dry up her tears, when he physically couldn't. She'd still love him.

He'd come to her as the rain too, in her dull life, trying to some life to her death. He would fail miserably and then fall on her face as small droplets, mixing with her tears. She'd still love him.

These days, he'd shine less, not troubling her even more. He'd let her escape from his rays and feel more of his might and shine from wherever he was. She'd still love him.

When she would go on the bank of Yamuna to bring back water, he'd stuck to her feet, making her laugh for a second, but then she'd remember. She'd remember how she'd been like that too, the day he was going away. She'd still love him.

On nights, when she'd exhaust all her tears, he'd fall on her as the moonlight, emitting grace and his colour. That would make her cry again, but she'd still love him.

Her soul? It was already a part of his existence. Once he was gone, he'd take her with him. She'd still love him.

But her favourite form, her Kanha? Oh, how she missed. All night she would wait for the morning hoping he'd play his flute and declare it all a big crack. All day she'd wait for the night, so maybe, just maybe he'd climb up her window once again.

He'd disappointed her both times. 

She'd still love him.

She'd still wait for him.

When he would marry all his wives, she'd still wait and love him.

When he would finally become dwarkapati, she'd still wait and love him.

When he'd protect Draupadi from men and their sorts, she'd still wait and love him.

When he'd lead Arjuna to the war, and become his sarthi, she'd still wait and love him.

When old age would dawn upon and her hair turned grey with patience, she'd wait for death. 

And he would come to her, in her favourite form yet again, for the final journey. And she? She'd still love him. Because that was all she ever remembered. 

Loving him was her only memory.

[nickysfacts]

The Angkor Wat is easily one of the grandest works of art ever created, truly a wonder of the world!

🕉️🇰🇭☸️

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