This is a compilation of the women who appear in different versions of the Mahabharata as well as the folkloric literature that enriches it further.
Written versions being actively covered so far are Vaishampayana Mahabharata (considered the mainstream original), Harivamsha (appendix to the Vaishampayana version), Vishnu Puran (written around the same time and hence considered as a supplementary narrative), Bhagavatha Puran (comparatively very new, but cannot really ignore it because it has pretty much taken over Krishna's original backstory), Jaimineya Mahabharata (only from the Ashvamedha Parva that still survives).
I sometimes also supplement interesting information about these women if I find them in other purans.
Other sources occasionally used/planned for future: Bhasa's plays, Kabi Sanjay's Bangla Mahabharat, Kashiram Dash's Bangla Mahabharat and the Bheel Mahabharat.
To be added if I find good translations: Souther Recension of Mahabharata, Javanese and Balinese Kakawins, Sarala Mahabharata, Jain and Jataka versions. I might also add more here if I find more versions to be excited about.
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It has been quite a few months, and Shikhandi had almost settled into a routine. His quarters were a little ways away from the princeβs, but his days were spent following him around as the king went on conquest after conquest. He longs to accompany him when he realizes that Panchal is throwing itself against Hastinapur, again and again and againβ even as hopes grow slimmer and slimmer. But his job is to be not much more than overglorified nanny, and so he watches over Satyajitβs lessons, and as he wipes away the dirt and blood on the princeβs skinned knees, he observes. He learns.
Swords.
Daggers.
Bows and Arrows.
Spears.
Battleaxes.
The weapons slowly make a home inside Satyajitβs quarters, but Shikhandi doesnβt touch them. They donβt know who he is. He knows what happens when a mere attendant touches the weapons meant for royals. Heβll just have to buy his own. He cannot risk anyone figuring out the truthβ at least not yet.
He saves up and buys a dagger for himself. Itβs not fancy like the one he knows the prince will be given soonβ not to practise with but to make his own, but the cheapest one at the shop. It will do for nowβ for practicing everything he has observed the prince do. Now, beneath his bed lies a trunk, in which he has begun building his personal armoury beneath the layers of clothes and other materials. One monthβs salary buys a knife. Two monthsβ salary buys a dummy swordβ one meant for practicing young boys. Three monthβs salary saved gets him a basic hunting bow and one more month of saving gets him a meagre quiver.
But that is not the only thing he observes. He observes how men walk and talk, how they move and behave. Itβs like he is a scholarβ except what he studies are not texts or stories of gods, but humans. From the shadows, he watches the princeβs etiquette lessonsβ now learning everything the opposite of what was taught to him as a child. A quiet envy curls up inside his gutβ a cruel voice that says you will never be like them, you cannot be a real man, not in this life,β and he strives to rid himself of it. Itβs an ugly feeling. He hates himself for feeling a strange jealousy of Jituβs boyhood, of the way he moves through the seasons of life and grows up. He lets the monster within him grow and grow and curl inside his stomach and throat and arms.
The pain keeps him awake sometimes. It goes deeper than Jituβs skinned knees, deeper than the kingβs pulled muscles, deeper than the monthly cramps he once used to experience, deeper still than the headaches that plague the queen when she is expecting. The ache is in his bones, the ache is a price, itβs a reminder of what he gave up and who he became and how he can never go back to that dreamy-eyed girl who just wanted a good man who would let her be queen and make a home with herβ
Amba was dead. A ghost lived in Ahichhatra in her place.
He runs into sthunakarna, and bares his heart to him. It feels surprisingly good, maybe even better than he expected.
He doesn't look like his mother anymore. He doesn't sound like his mother anymore. His new body... it's all lean muscle and a wonderful bushy moustache and his hair is so soft and wavy and he's decently tall(still shorter than most of his family, though). He speaks once, and he doesn't know what to feel. His new voice is melodious, it's like honey and butter spreading smooth on freshly roasted bread. But no matter how absolutely ruined his old voice was, at least it was like his mother.
Mother talks about the small stone house, still on the palace grounds, less than an hour's journey on horse.
He doesn't realise she talked about it so he could be saved from seeing how ill she had become of late. He postpones his plans, and the house stays locked.
"You sound good," she says, sitting up from the bed with no small effort. "You look happier," she continues. At his hesitant expression, she says, "No matter what you look like, you will always be my child. I will never stop loving you,"
He cries at that. He doesn't think he stops crying until her ashes are in the water.
They called it maternal depletion. She gave so much of herself to them that there was nothing left in her.
He can't face anyone. He sees her in their faces, but not in the way he saw her in himself. All he sees is her pain.
The little stone house is opened, cleaned, and he begins living there.
If no one hears him, is he really speaking?
For the first time in years, he allows himself to think about Ambika and Ambalika. They had only one child each. But the way the kurus took everything from them....
He half wonders if he should try to find them. In some universe, maybe he even succeeds. But not here.
He prays to mahadeva, he begs his lord to grant them peace wherever they are, but he can't get through the prayer.
His voice is hoarse again.
There is no one to seek comfort from, now. Except for him.
They share a quick, perfunctory hug,
He breaks mirrors because he can't bear the fact that he has lost the only thing he has of her.
What use is his melodious voice when he might forget hers soon?
That night, they finally talk. The deep chasm between them may never be repaired, but they start building a bridge. Baba tells him, "You sleep on your left side. And you like wearing rings. And the colour green. You wear a lot of green. And you never, ever hesitate to ask me for things. And-"
"And?" he prompted gently.
"I like giving them. You have to understand, son, that I am a very selfish person. I don't give things away so easily. I hold onto them. But when you ask for them, I- I find it easy to let go, to give you whatever you want. Just like she did. You still have a lot of her in you, Shikhandi, a lot, lot more than just her looks. And you swallow the bitter acrid sting of pain and act as if everything is alright, just like her."
That doesn't take away the pain of losing his voice. But maybe, just maybe, it gives that pain a place to stay.
But oh, he feels so happy. His body feels like a home for the first time ever and he doesn't feel the urge to punish himself for existing like he used to.
The next time he sits down at the altar, he notices his voice, the way it vibrates in his chest and the way the words move around in his mouth. He notices, that it sounds beautiful when he sings. He shyly asks Manu if he can teach him.
He wanders around with a skip in his step, warbling a tune wherever he goes. He talks incessantly, and jitu looks at him in shock and awe and Shikhandi can tell he's a bit annoyed and would like to go back to work but he doesn't tell Shikhandi to stop. So Shikhandi doesn't.
Life slowly comes back to normal.
It's a winter afternoon, warm and sunny, when he starts the habit of visiting Shalaka.
It takes half of winter and all of spring and a fourth of summer before the walls between them break down, and he cups her tear streaked cheek in his palm and tells her that she has been on his mind this whole time, despite everything(its a half truth but he's more focused on being romantic.)
They run through the house like children, giggling and flirting and chasing each other, until she has him pinned down on the bed, absolutely at her mercy.
It's a repeat of that night, but he hasn't lost his voice. Somewhere amidst the moans of pleasure and the sweet words whispered to her, he has found it.
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and while weβre at it, fuck this idea that ONE ACCOUNT has to belong uniquely to ONE PERSON. This is the same thing these silicon valley fucks want; their vision of the future where everyone has a unique biometric ID code implanted in their body is the ultimate extension of Netflixβs βno password sharingβ policy. You want to use your friendβs car? Sorry, you canβt, you need to be an authorized user. Your mother wants to let you look something up on her OED account? Too bad! Thatβs only for her! The concept of perfect market efficiency gives them greedy little money bag eyes.
If I pay money to have a newspaper sent to my house, they donβt charge me extra when I show it to my dad. This password sharing thing isnβt just a Netflix problem; donβt be surprised if it shows up elsewhere in other forms. Stamp this idea out now or weβll be stuck with it.
This is by far the most popular post I have and I have to say: good, Iβm right. Password sharing and ID verification are going to kill the internet. not oooh in 50 years. in like 5 more.
helen βtrans people are perpetuating gender steriotypesβ joyce is now upset that the scientific american is writing about how women were hunters too back in the day, not just mothers and caretakers. feminist win!
Reading the article I see why TERFs are mad about it; it explicitly makes the distinction between gender as a social entity and sex as a biological category, and defines biological sex having multiple factors, both of which are anathema to TERF philosophy.
It also includes these fascinating paragraphs about the role of estrogen in different types of physical activity, directly debunking the widespread notion that estrogen is the weak human's hormone and only does weak human things:
Given the fitness world's persistent touting of the hormone testosterone for athletic success, you'd be forgiven for not knowing that estrogen, which females typically produce more of than males, plays an incredibly important role in athletic performanceβ¦ The estrogen receptorβthe protein that estrogen binds to in order to do its workβis deeply ancient. Joseph Thornton of the University of Chicago and his colleagues have estimated that it is around 1.2 billion to 600 million years oldβroughly twice as old as the testosterone receptor. In addition to helping regulate the reproductive system, estrogen influences fine-motor control and memory, enhances the growth and development of neurons, and helps to prevent hardening of the arteries.
Important for the purposes of this discussion, estrogen also improves fat metabolism. During exercise, estrogen seems to encourage the body to use stored fat for energy before stored carbohydrates. Fat contains more calories per gram than carbohydrates do, so it burns more slowly, which can delay fatigue during endurance activity. Not only does estrogen encourage fat burning, but it also promotes greater fat storage within muscles⦠which makes that fat's energy more readily available. Adiponectin, another hormone that is typically present in higher amounts in females than in males, further enhances fat metabolism while sparing carbohydrates for future use, and it protects muscle from breakdown. Anne Friedlander of Stanford University and her colleagues found that females use as much as 70 percent more fat for energy during exercise than males.
Estrogen's ability to increase fat metabolism and regulate the body's response to the hormone insulin can help prevent muscle breakdown during intense exercise. Furthermore, estrogen appears to have a stabilizing effect on cell membranes that might otherwise rupture from acute stress brought on by heat and exercise. Ruptured cells release enzymes called creatine kinases, which can damage tissues⦠Linda Lamont of the University of Rhode Island and her colleagues, as well as Michael Riddell of York University in Canada and his colleagues, found that females experienced less muscle breakdown than males after the same bouts of exercise. Tellingly, in a separate study, Mazen J. Hamadeh of York University and his colleagues found that males supplemented with estrogen suffered less muscle breakdown during cycling than those who didn't receive estrogen supplements.
The article also talks about sexual dimorphism in different species, concluding that "Modern humans have low sexual dimorphism compared with the other great apes," and that overemphasis on averages obscures the wide dispersal of individual traits, which is what I keep saying.
Anthropologists also look at damage on our ancestors' skeletons for clues to their behavior. Neandertals are the best-studied extinct members of the human family because we have a rich fossil record of their remains. Neandertal females and males do not differ in their trauma patterns, nor do they exhibit sex differences in pathology from repetitive actions. Their skeletons show the same patterns of wear and tear. This finding suggests that they were doing the same things, from ambush-hunting large game animals to processing hides for leather. Yes, Neandertal women were spearing woolly rhinoceroses, and Neandertal men were making clothing.
What would you feel if you had to watch the person you love most slip away while you were powerless to save them?
My motherβs condition is getting worse, and she cannot afford to wait any longer for the treatment she desperately needs.
Please help me save her, Even the smallest donation could be the reason she survives.
Please stop scrolling. Take a moment, read Ahmed's words, and think about what you can do to help him and his mother. If you are reading this, there is something that you can do help. Please donate and share. Even if you can only make a small donation, that can add up if enough people participate, and shares help the campaign reach others who can contribute.
From a Computer Engineer to Fighting for Survival: Please Do Not Scroll Past My Urgent Appeal π₯Ίπ
Before this crisis, I was a Computer Engineering graduate from the Islamic University of Gaza. I had a house, a car, a promising career, and a life full of dreams. Now, I am a brother carrying the heavy responsibility of keeping my entire family alive.
I sacrificed absolutely everything before turning to this campaign. I spent my entire life savings and sold every single thing I owned, including my laptop. Out of pure desperation to feed my family, I took a grueling heavy-lifting job that my body couldn't handle. My back broke under the weight, leaving me hospitalized for an entire month.
Today, I am broken and in agonizing pain inside a tent, unable to even stand up on my own feet.
I feel completely helpless because my campaign is moving extremely slowβit doesn't even cover the cost of basic food for my family right now. We are starving, and the slow support is leaving us stranded on the brink of survival.
Please, do not look away from our agony. Your donations are our only way to eat and stay safe. If you cannot donate, please share my story. You are truly our last remaining hope πππ₯ππ
Hi, my name is Max and I am raising funds for Mahmoud and his family who are living in Gaza. Please read his story below:
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Hey here is your friendly reminder to not tell your nice boss stuff.
Iβm at the executive management level for my very small company and I have 4 people who report directly to me. I am a nice boss. Iβm friendly with my employees, I treat them like professional adults, I actively try to create a positive work environment, and I mentor them and make sure theyβre advancing in their careers. I do my best to shield them from the rest of management doing stupid shit. My employees like working for me.
The other day one of my employees came to ask if she could change her hours on Mondays. I said yes immediately because itβs helpful for me to know when sheβs here and when sheβs not, but as long as she gets her work done I donβt care when and where she does it. She then proceeded to tell me that it was so she could attend therapy and like β¦ I will never use this information but β¦ as a general rule donβt fucking do that.
Do not tell your employer shit about your mental or physical health except for the bare minimum needed to request a reasonable accommodation. Even your nice boss can fire you, even your nice boss can unfairly change your working conditions, and even your nice boss at some point is probably going to face pressure from their superiors.
Iβm not saying donβt trust your boss with anything ever. Iβm just saying that anytime you are in the workplace you need to keep your private information private. You can still have a good relationship with your boss. Your workplace can still be pleasant. But if it ever feels like disclosing private information is required in order to have a good relationship with your boss, please see that as a red flag.
This post got a like out of nowhere and I only vaguely remember writing it and Iβm not entirely sure which of my employees inspired it, but it still holds.
You do not owe your boss information about your personal life or medical status. In fact, it is ILLEGAL for them to ask about specifics when it comes to medical stuff. Don't volunteer information they can use against you, whether to the cops or to your nice boss who seems like they only want what's best for you.
My name is Adham, and before the war, I lived a simple but happy life. I worked as a driver with my own car, earning an honest living by taking people where they needed to go. It wasn't a luxurious life, but it was enough. I was proud that I could provide for myself and look toward the future with hope.
Shortly before the war began, I got married. My wife and I dreamed of building a peaceful life together, but those dreams were shattered almost overnight.
The war took everything from us. Our home was destroyed, and the car that was my only source of income was lost. In a matter of days, I went from being able to support my family to having nothing.
Today, my wife and I live in a tent. Even the small piece of land where our tent stands is not free, and the landowner asks us to pay rent every month. We struggle every day to find food, clean water, and the basic necessities of life.
My name is Adham, and before the war, I lived a simple but happy life. I worked as a driver with my own car, earning an honest living by tak
As if losing everything wasn't enough, I was seriously injured during the war. A bullet struck my chest, and it still remains inside my body. I need surgery to remove it, but the operation costs far more than I could ever afford. Every day I live with pain and uncertainty, knowing that I cannot pay for the treatment I need.
I also had a fundraising campaign in the past, but unfortunately, I never received the support that was collected for me because I was deceived by the person managing the campaign. After that painful experience, I am now searching for a trustworthy person who can help me create and manage a new fundraising campaign so I can finally receive the support my family urgently needs.
I am asking for your help with humility and hope. Whether you can help by creating a fundraiser, donating, or simply sharing my story, your support could truly change our lives. Your kindness will help us cover our basic living expenses, pay the rent for the land where our tent stands, buy food and other essentials, and, most importantly, give me a chance to receive the surgery I desperately need.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you for taking the time to read my story and for standing with my family during the hardest time of our lives. Your kindness gives us hope that we are not alone.
No donation is too small. If you are unable to donate, sharing my story or helping me find someone who can safely organize a fundraising campaign would mean the world to us.
I kindly ask you to support my brother, Adham, and his wife during these incredibly difficult times. They are facing severe hardship and struggling to meet even their most basic needs.
If you are able, please consider donating to Adham's fundraiser. Any amount, no matter how small, will make a real difference and help my brother and his wife get through these challenging days. If you are unable to donate, please consider sharing his fundraiser with others who may be able to help.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your kindness, generosity, and prayers.
My children are suffocating from the dust inside a tent that cannot protect us from the storm, and their crying breaks my heart while I stand helpless.
Please do not leave us aloneβ¦ Donate 200β¬ for my children to help us stay alive. πππ
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My name is Adham, and before the war, I lived a simple but happy life. I worked as a driver with my own car, earning an honest living by taking people where they needed to go. It wasn't a luxurious life, but it was enough. I was proud that I could provide for myself and look toward the future with hope.
Shortly before the war began, I got married. My wife and I dreamed of building a peaceful life together, but those dreams were shattered almost overnight.
The war took everything from us. Our home was destroyed, and the car that was my only source of income was lost. In a matter of days, I went from being able to support my family to having nothing.
Today, my wife and I live in a tent. Even the small piece of land where our tent stands is not free, and the landowner asks us to pay rent every month. We struggle every day to find food, clean water, and the basic necessities of life.
My name is Adham, and before the war, I lived a simple but happy life. I worked as a driver with my own car, earning an honest living by tak
As if losing everything wasn't enough, I was seriously injured during the war. A bullet struck my chest, and it still remains inside my body. I need surgery to remove it, but the operation costs far more than I could ever afford. Every day I live with pain and uncertainty, knowing that I cannot pay for the treatment I need.
I also had a fundraising campaign in the past, but unfortunately, I never received the support that was collected for me because I was deceived by the person managing the campaign. After that painful experience, I am now searching for a trustworthy person who can help me create and manage a new fundraising campaign so I can finally receive the support my family urgently needs.
I am asking for your help with humility and hope. Whether you can help by creating a fundraiser, donating, or simply sharing my story, your support could truly change our lives. Your kindness will help us cover our basic living expenses, pay the rent for the land where our tent stands, buy food and other essentials, and, most importantly, give me a chance to receive the surgery I desperately need.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you for taking the time to read my story and for standing with my family during the hardest time of our lives. Your kindness gives us hope that we are not alone.
No donation is too small. If you are unable to donate, sharing my story or helping me find someone who can safely organize a fundraising campaign would mean the world to us.
I kindly ask you to support my brother, Adham, and his wife during these incredibly difficult times. They are facing severe hardship and struggling to meet even their most basic needs.
If you are able, please consider donating to Adham's fundraiser. Any amount, no matter how small, will make a real difference and help my brother and his wife get through these challenging days. If you are unable to donate, please consider sharing his fundraiser with others who may be able to help.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your kindness, generosity, and prayers.
To be very honest, I only accidentally stumbled upon a Bengali translation of this set of tales [originally compiled by Bhagwandas Patel] by Jaya Mitra. Before reading this, I only knew of the Draupadi-Vasuki story, and the rest of the book proved both infuriating and enthralling.
It's a collection of the ballads of the Dungariya Bheel community, mostly performed live during special occasions. The interpretations of the stories from Vaishampayana are often starkly different here, and the shift of priorities is clear. For eg, the main war is only about a page long, while we spend a far longer time inspecting the family dynamics, such as the enmity of Krishna and Abhimanyu [which too are slightly changed here].
Just a warning: these stories are frequently explicit and often challenge mainstream morality.
