#satyajit

First image:

Top left: beach date top middle: he thought shalaka was looking cute top right: he styled her hair

middle left: him and draupadi middle: If you zoom in you'll see it's written "Indian art history series, part 3" he's doing an infographic carousel post thing middle right: himself before he transitioned

bottom 3: rome era

Second image:

him and shalaka go to the guesthouse property

Next six are all nepal pics

lotus pendant

watching a movie with his brothers

first rakshabandhan after coming out(BRO COME ON TELL ME THIS DOESNT HIT YOU IN THE FEELS

indian art history series

his own painting studio

visiting a museum

trying on drish's clothes

They were born with a sword in their hand. They arise out of the fire, with no goal except vengeance. They are told they are a prince, the crown prince, even. Shikhandi stares at the ceremony from the gallery above, making no secret of his bitterness. Satyajit stands beside the throne, resigned. So, he was regent of Panchal, but now, he has gone back to being the spare. For a second, they feel good. They were chosen over others like Satyajit, who handled the kingdom and his father’s absence and his brothers’ hurts. Over Shikhandi, who brought many victories to Panchal, and was pushed aside because of one loss, or even Yudhamanyu and Uttamaujas. But father seems to forget about them half the time, so they do not pay the twins any mind either. Draupadi is the only one smiling encouragingly at them as they are crowned the yuvaraj, everyone else looking at them with either doubt, resignation, or even outright hatred. Dhṛṣṭadyumna feels that everyone is justified in hating him. It’s okay, they hate themself too. 

They are proud. Too proud, in fact, to ask for help. They secretly feel relieved when Satyajit catches an error in the budget that could have cost an already bankrupt Panchal even more. For the first time, they see that calm visage cracking as he berates father for it. Berates father for making them crown prince, tells him off about how they are inexperienced and naive and should not be in the position they are in. Should they have asked father to hold off, give them time, time to adjust to this new world, time to learn all the skills a prince should have? They shake off that thought. They need to carry out father’s desires, they are only there to kill Drona, nothing else. A weapon does not question the hand that wields it. They do not feel like a prince, they never have. They are only a prince by virtue of being the child of a king who looks vaguely male because a man makes a better weapon than a woman. They’ve always felt like a weapon. 

“Why was I spawned, why did you need me if you already had so many sons?” They ask the king. 

“They weren’t you” The king says, but Dhṛṣṭadyumna hears, ‘they were not weapon enough’. They hope they can be weapon enough. 

They’re not human, so sometimes they forget to breathe.

When none of their brothers talk to them at first, it makes them feel something strange in their chest. So they spend their time in the armoury of the Eastern wing of the palace, barely remembering to eat and sleeping on a bench there, training all day, sometimes into the night. Forgetting to blink, sometimes even to breathe. They need to be good. They need to make the king proud. That is what they were born for, right? Dhṛṣṭadyumna, the blade of Panchal, and Agn-Draupadi, it’s Soubhagya. Even now, the name agnija seems closer to them than Draupadi. She’s effervescent, effulgent, blazing like the fire of a yajna. She gets along with everyone, with her innocence and enthusiasm and good nature and self respect and smile. He loves her smile. They both diverge after emerging from the fire, him going after his father, his king, while she is taken away by the attendants who rush to make her presentable.  Yajnaseni. That’s what shikhandi calls her, whenever they get a chance to talk. Panchali, Satyajit calls her, after their homeland. The thing dearest to him. After all, for what do they exist but to be figurines the humans can project their desires onto? So, in public, they call her Draupadi, the daughter of Drupad, and she calls them Dhṛṣṭadyumna, his avenger. In private, however, the word agnija slips as easily from their tongue as Ushna slips from hers. 

And then, the palace feels too suffocating and thoughtlessly, they take a horse and wander off into the woods. The horse runs really fast, until it can’t. But the itch on their skin, the feeling like they’re trapped and trapped and about to explode- that hasn’t faded yet, so they dismount and walk ahead on foot. They’ve been a fool. The clouds were already greying when they set out, sunny afternoon quickly turning into a stormy evening and wrecking havoc all across the forest.  They slip and fall and steady themself and bump into trees and- They don’t know when the world goes black. 

The ground is still muddy when they feel someone shaking them awake. 

“You-” They look at Shikhandi, confused. Didn’t he hate them? “How-” 

“I’m your brother, what was I to do, leave you to die?” He laughs. “Get up!”  

“Come on, I’ll show you the way out,” he says again when they hesitate. 

They take the hand offered to them, and get up, shaking. The forest directly at the back of the castle was allowed to grow wild as a defence. Contrary to what people might believe, Kampilya was not a capital fashioned out of nothing when they had to pack up and move south, it was the winter capital of Panchal, a palace built more for leisure than work. Yudhamanyu and Uttamaujas had painstakingly made it a place worthy of ruling a kingdom from, while Satyajit ruled the kingdom and Shikhandi- Shikhandi was still reeling from the defeat. They don’t come out of the forest the way they went in, instead, coming out at a plateau at the northwestern edge of the city. A ramshackle bridge that clearly hasn’t been used in years is suspended across the valley, and on the other end of it, they see a bright flash of  the signature orangey red that Agnijaa wears. She’s waving excitedly, and all they can do is look down at the gorge between them. Gingerly, carefully, Shikhandi leads them across, their hand on his arm, still not recovered from the shock of being actually acknowledged by the others. They’re barely on solid ground when the orangey red blur hugs them tight. 

“I was worried sick!” she wails, tears in her eyes. “If anything is bothering you, tell me, please! I promise I will try to understand! Don’t go away like this!”

With dirt in their nails, they place a hand on her cheek for a moment before nodding. It was okay if they lied to others, right? They lied to themself all the time. 

Their brothers are kinder to them, after that. Shikhandi trains with them, sometimes nagging, sometimes ruthless, sometimes easily bent, but always punctual. He checks whether they have slept in an actual bedroom rather than the bench on the armoury. He pays attention to every clench of their jaw, to every curl of their fist. And asks questions. Sometimes they serve to irk, sometimes to soothe. Soon, they pick up what he’s putting down and begin doing the same for him. It’s fun to get under his skin. Except for topics they know not to touch. 

Satyajit is more patient, now, teaching them everything he knows. Telling them stories, telling them about the family. It is at that moment they realise that Kampilya is only a capital for the others, but for them? It is the only home they have known. They decide to make the big empty house into a home. Maybe their brothers will be happy. 

They do not know if they are a man, but they’ll always be a brother. 

Out of all of them, Draupadi is the first to get married. Shikhandi  places a gentle hand on their shoulder and tells them that that feeling in their chest is called sadness. It’s okay, their twin, half of their soul is going away. It is natural that they would feel sad, he says. Can weapons feel sad, they wonder. ‘No, but twins can. Brothers can.’ another part answers. In the silence of the night, they weep. When they forget to breathe a few days later, they actually feel out of breath. 

The next to get married is Shikhandi, with an epic love story. A warrior princess, a murder attempt, almost a war- Father trusts them to make decisions on the matter. Shikhandi trusts them to make decisions that make sure everyone escapes with minimal damage. So they place the princess under house arrest, and stand guard day and night. 

And then it’s their own turn, with no flashy alliances, no grand love stories, just a nobleman’s daughter and twins on the way. 

“I do not think I can give you love,” they say. 

“Being Yuvarajni is enough, I think,” She smiles. “Power can compensate for many things,” she says. 

Krishna. They sigh every time the name is mentioned. He is annoying, he drapes himself across the sofa, they cannot find words to describe him, and he trash talks them, and they give as good as they get. He teases them, attempts to make them ‘lighten up,’ attempts to get under their skin. The tricks do not work on them, for they have already been annoyed in all the ways possible by a variety of brothers. What’s one more? What really gets under their skin, though, is the fact that he can read Agnijaa like they can’t. They know there is no one else to blame for the ever-growing chasm between them, and they have resigned themself to it. It’s like everything else, it has to be thought about in parts. A part of them is happy she has someone. She deserves it. She deserves the world. Another part of them, a much deeper, much more hidden one, is bitter that they couldn’t be that person, and they know there is no one else to blame but themself. 

Years pass, the children grow up. She is Samrajni, and they are just the crown prince. It makes them smile. Sometimes, they almost believe they fit into their role. Every day brings a new surprise, what with father giving the three of them more and more responsibilities. Panchal expands south, with Jarasandha gone. They find a friend in their brother-in-law, and a sister in Shikhandi’s wife Shalaka. They can almost forget why they were born. They can almost forget why Kampilya is the only home they have ever known, and the rest yearn for the old capital. They can almost forget. Like a prisoner in a cell that is way too small, stretching their hand toward a skylight too high up on the ceiling, they can dream of happiness. A weapon is burnt and shaped and sharpened and polished when it grows dull. How could they forget who they were, they ask themself. Destiny pushed the sword into the furnace, and then it was never the same again.  

Oh, but they forgot, they are a weapon, they ruin everything they touch.

The news from Hastinapur is horrific. And to their dying day, they will keep it a secret that they have felt everything she did. The twins of Drupad’s family had a special connection. Emotions experienced by one twin were felt by the other, and, in some extreme cases, manifested physically. Burning with fever, they lie in bed, waiting for news. When the hot waves of fever wracking their body recede, they wrap themself up, and head to the bathroom. The water would be scalding to anyone else, but the steam and temperature welcome them with open arms as they step into the bathtub, clothes still on. They lean against the back of the tub, arms snaking around the sides to hold them. Sitting in the hot water, they finally feel like they can breathe. The first breath is shaky. It’s all salty cheeks and quivering lips, and they want to get rid of the tear tracks. They hold water in their cupped hands, splash it onto their face, and scrub it with their hands until the layer of grime has finally passed and the throbbing in their forehead has numbed. The tears that come then aren’t loud sobs or quiet sniffles. They just are. They flow from their eyes until they lose track of time and stop only when they realise they need to breathe. They sit there, unblinking, zoning in and out. They do not have it in them to be anxious. 

They think they have failed, and maybe they have. Agnijaa does not look them in the eye at first when they go to visit her with father. They grit their teeth, make oaths to decimate all who hurt her, and with dirt in her nails, she places a hand on their cheek and gently shakes her head. They turn her head this way and that, inspect the now-bandaged injuries. They are, again, and again, and again, reminded of the extremely frustrating fact that weapons don’t feel, but brothers do, and those two aspects of their person are always in conflict, will always be, and- and it is becoming harder and harder to survive without breathing, these days. They still keep forgetting, though. One day, they hope they can be human enough. 

They play with their children, train them. Drishtaketu looks exactly like them, and his fraternal twin Dhoomaketu takes after Shashikala. They are the strong hand on Prativindhya’s shoulder, pushing him out of the darkness that clouds his life, they are the voice that reminds him, “You are not your father.” They are the shoulders Sutasoma leans on as he regains his strength after his illness. They are the shoulders Shrutakarma rides on, and the armoured chest Shatanik practises sword strokes on. They are the chest Shrutasen runs into when he sees them after a long, long spy mission. Maybe weapons don’t love, but fathers and uncles certainly do. So they love the children. 

Oh, but they forgot, they are a weapon, they ruin everything they touch.

Soon enough, the conches and war drums sound. Their hackles are raised back up, and their back straightens as they are made the commander-in-chief of the Pandava forces. They are not fighting for him, they are fighting for her. They have nothing to lose. Except their brothers, and their father, and their sons, and- Those thoughts are pushed away as they become weapon again. Pure weapon. But it all comes to a head, one day, when Krishna says something they cannot abide by. They have to remind him that they are the commander, not him. They walk out of the meeting, they refuse to go out on the battlefield.  They do not know who it is that cries “Attack!” on the fifteenth day. It is a man in their armour. His voice matches theirs. Drishtaketu.  That is the first and last time they feel fear. A messenger tells them that their son has been skewered like a piece of meat. 

“Who did it?”  They ask. 

“Commander Drona,” The messenger says. 

And the noise in their head recedes as they ride out to battle. It seems that they cannot, after all, fight their destiny. That man has killed their son. He has to die. When they reach, though, Father is locked in a battle with him. They know how this will end. It ends with a poisoned arrow in his king’s chest. The weapon is now guided by a ghost. Drona rides ahead, decimating the army. Cutting down their other son who stands in his way. The panchal troops are on the frontline today, and the emperor has to be protected. 

Divyaketu.

Kshatranjaya.

Drishtaketu. 

Drupada.

And the weapon remembers. Dhṛṣṭadyumna couldn’t believe that father was having children at the same time as them. Kumara and Panchalya had always been more his sons than brothers. The Emperor’s guards are dead. 

Kumara. 

Panchalya. 

Shatrunjaya.

They are a father. He killed their sons.

They are a child. He killed their father.

They are a big brother. He killed their little brothers. 

He shall not live. 

They nod at Krishna. 

“Ashwatthama is dead!” Bheem roars, as an elephant falls on the ground. The target sits down to meditate, and the weapon stands there, poised. The target takes a deep breath.

Ice fills their veins. 

The beheading is clean.

The beheading of the one who killed their brothers is too pristine, they feel. They should've been crueller, it was in their name.

Shalaka dislodges the sword from their white-knucled grip and sets it aside. She undoes the straps on their armour, and places a ghost of a gentle hand on their head when they confess that yes, they miss Shashikala so very much. Can the weapon finally be human now? They want to say no, but destiny says yes, when, three days later, they're struggling to breathe, begging the assailant to treat them honourably and kill them quickly.