Hi i had a book idea once for Satybhama. The wip has been abandoned since 2021 but here you go. I wrote this in 2021.
The Great War is over. My husband, Krishna, has left the earth. Dwarka has sunk, and my sons and grandsons have perished in the civil war. Some of my sister queens have jumped into the fire and the rest have busied themselves in meditation in various corners of this forest where I live. I can’t find them though.
Tall trees and thick bushes are the only things my eyes can see around. There is absolutely no human living beside me or in my vicinity. Here, the only edible items are fruits and tubers, which taste heavenly. Some years before, I would have grimaced at the mere thought of living on fruits in a forest due to my upbringing and royal status. It never fails to amaze me how time changes everything. A city once ruled by a tyrant is brought down and a city built by the finest of architects gets submerged under a sea getting lost to time and history forever. Time is indeed the ultimate killer. No one can escape it.
I am currently sitting under a Neelmohar tree. Maybe it is their growing season, for the tree is filled with purple flowers. Many of them are lying near my feet. I pick one and gently rub my thumb across one of its petals. The colour reminds me of my purple saree, which Krishna had gifted me, and the flower’s softness reminds me of the saree’s beautiful texture. The saree must be in the seabed now, drifting along the sea-waves. Bhadra loved that saree and would shower me with compliments whenever I wore it.
Dwarka — my second home, where I have spent almost all my life, now lies under the sea, hidden from sight. The once tall buildings where I once walked, the beautiful gardens where Krishna and I spent some lovely times, the archery room which Krishna had specifically built for me, everything now exists in my brain like an old dream. I do not remember how much time has passed since Krishna’s death and the submerging of Dwarka. All the time that I have spent in this forest has been devoted to contemplation about my life.
What is there to contemplate about my life? Do I contemplate about the riches I was brought up with? Do I think about the domestic tensions of my household? Do I wonder about the coming Kali Yuga?
There is so much to think about. What did I do in my life? What will happen once my soul leaves my body? Will someone mourn for me? Will I find Krishna smiling with his perfect rosy lips and pearly teeth in the afterlife? Is there even something beyond death? Wise men say that death is not the end, is it not? These are philosophical questions that Krishna would have answered had he been with me here. Now as I am talking to you, I wonder about my memories which appear in front of my eyes as if belonging to an old dream.
I see my childhood self, running on the corridors of my father’s home with my friends. The scene changes where I find myself aged a little older — I am probably fifteen there, I think. There is a bow in my hand and I am assessing the target ahead. Once again, the scene changes and I can see a marriage ceremony followed by the war and the end of Dwarka. But memories resurface again as if asking to look beyond the mundane. I can hear a voice inside me, whispering, ‘There is more to your story; you must go through it all.’
Now I see something else. There is my father’s house standing tall and proud, and a little girl is playing in the mud while looking at the flower bushes in wonder. I see my mother in a temple where I ask about the goddess Durga. My childhood memory flutters away and my teenaged form arrives. I am young, curious and hot-headed. I am travelling alone in Mathura where I see the exact condition of the people residing. It is pathetic. I see myself now as a wedded woman in the kitchen chatting happily with my sister queens about the day. Now I see my lord, my Krishna, putting flowers in my hair while we talk about the sea. He says, ‘Water when demure nourishes the land, bringing us delight and when water turns wild and frightening, it shall engulf all leaving not even remains behind.’
I realize everything. My life’s story does not start with archery, nor does it end with Dwarka. It starts with me being a curious child trying to understand nature and men, and my story is still incomplete.
“Who am I, mother?” I had raised this question once when I stared into a mirror for a long time, finding my reflection slightly different. I realize I never found the answer.
Who am I now? Who shall answer me?
My mother once told me that there are some questions whose answers lie within our hearts. One must introspect over it and they shall find the answer that has been hiding in their heart all along.
I can feel my heartbeat quicken its pace. My mind is busy with its chain of memories arranging themselves haphazardly. Each incident whispers its lessons to my ears and I feel overwhelmed. I want to share my thoughts with someone. Do you want to listen to me?
I will cease to exist after some time. Historians, poets, and scribes will write stories about me that will be read and heard by people across the world. Fame isn’t my concern nor my desire, for I have had a good share of it. The only thing that concerns me is will the Satyabhama in their scripts be me? How much of my life will they write about? What will they include and exclude? How much of my actions will be overdramatized if by any chance someone gains enough liberty to do so? My life story can even turn into a mythical story, and only I would know that I once existed in bones and muscles.
So before you read and hear about me, I want you to hear me speak about my life, Satyabhama’s life. Here, I promise you that I shall present my story with complete honesty. Satyabhama is my name, which means ‘beaming with truth.’ I promise to be true to myself and you.
Taglist: @jessbeinme15 @swayamev @just-another-godless-god @merapehlapyaarwaapasaagaya @pokemon-master-elita @svapnakalpa-mareechi @ma-douce-souffrance @eugenephosgene @savlon-bhoi @arachneofthoughts @reallythoughtfulwizard
