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—  SANKTA ALINA. SOL KOROLEVA. 

❝ i am the sun summoner. it gets dark when i say it does. ❞

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old fairy book covers

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favourites

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favourites

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good evening I am thinking about jodhaa akbar again

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Madhuri dixit in Ram Lakhan (1989)

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My pressed flowers collection: pink edition 🌼

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dopahar: jasmeet devgn for torani ph. vansh virmani

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everybody give it up for this brand of green. round of applause for most under appreciated green

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Japonya: Tokyo, Kyoto, Nara, Osaka

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Jan Ironside

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A little Rohini piece because I think she is extremely cool and also extremely underrated!

Rohini is not a woman of a lot of words.

And this is not particularly a secret to anyone in Vrindavan. She partakes occasionally in the discussions of milk and grains, lends a hand to Nanda in politics and calculations, sneaks in a suggestion to Krishna for clevering his antics here and there, but, ultimately, finds peace in curling up by the window, the afternoon sunlight falling languidly on the book in her hand.  

She is unsure, then, of how exactly it is that she gets roped into being the head of entertainment for the little girls of the village, that too for a full evening.

The adults are off to a wedding in the neighboring village, the boys are out frolicking in the fields, and the girls, not allowed out in the dark alone, are staring up at her with expectant eyes from where they sit cross legged on the ground.

“What,” she begins, and hopes her tone does not betray the confusion she feels. “Would you all like to do?”

“Can we play battle like the one they show in the nataks?” one from the fifteen responds, her red bindi rising with her eyebrows in eagerness.

“I do not think that would be very wise,” Rohini states, and the abundance of knives as well as children in the house, alongwith the lack of battleground proportions of space makes her believe she is right to do so. She would like to return the girls to their parents with all their organs intact. 

“We could weave a garland then?” 

This time it comes from the front, from the girl in braids and a blue choli. Radha. 

The unofficial leader of the gopis and the partner in crime in most of her nephew’s mischiefs, smiles excitedly at Rohini, and animatedly adds, “I saw Yashoda Kaki bring in a basket full of flowers today. We could all sit around and weave it together.”

Most of the girls nod in agreement.

It is not a bad idea at all, but, “She had to use all of them for the puja this morning, I am afraid.”

Radha’s moon-like face falls, and Rohini feels a slight pang of regret. 

The kid just beside Radha immediately declares. “Take us to the wedding. I heard the food there is delicious.”

“It will be over by now, Lali,” Radha pouts, looking into the distance. 

“And we can not go to a wedding empty handed,” a girl from the middle row pipes up, seemingly scandalized. “Right, Kaki?”

Rohini hides an amused smile at the exchange. “Quite right. And besides,” she looks over at the bright young faces. “I must confess, I happen to be completely in the dark in regard to whose nuptials are even taking place.” 

The girls exchange glances among themselves. There seems to be a silent mutual understanding when Radha leans ahead to whisper conspiratorially, “Us too, Kaki.” A pause. “I think that is why we were not invited.”

Rohini leans ahead too, and drops her voice to her level. “I think that is why I was not invited either.”

The young ladies break out in giggles and Rohini, surprisingly, finds herself joining them. 

“Weddings should be about food, not the names.” Lali huffs. “Nobody cares about them.”

“True. The fight over food makes better stories than most of the bride and grooms,” another girl, adorned with green bangles and a leaf crown, asserts.

Radha suddenly gasps, deep brown eyes lighting up. “Kaki! Why don’t you tell us a story? I have seen you reading everyday. You must know so many.”

There is murmur of agreement in the gathering and Rohini is surprised that why had she not thought of it.

“Yes,” Rohini breathes out, “I do know quite a few.” She may perhaps not be a words person, but stories to her had always been more about art rather than language. More a painting rather than ink. “And to suit the occasion, some of them happen to involve weddings too.”

There is a cheer from the gathering as Rohini beacons them closer. This time, the expectant eyes and eager expression are more than welcome as she begins, “There was once a king who wanted to marry a princess from a different culture. She agreed but first placed two demands about her god and freedom…”

When the boys come back, they are shocked to see the gopis chatting away with Rohini late into the night, hanging on each and every word of hers like a sacred thread.

When the grown ups come back, at the crack of dawn, they are left confused at the sight of kids asleep around Rohini in Yashoda’s aangan, as the crisp, almost orange light falls on the royal princess reading between the dozing forms, lightly stroking Radha’s hair who’s asleep on her lap.

(Years later, when Krishna kills Kansa and becomes the Lord of Mathura, when Subhadra comes into their world and when all Vrindavan is allowed to be is a distant unimportant village, Rohini weaves a tale to her daughter to lull her into a slumber and dares not dwell on why her heart recalls a hazy laughter filled evening and hurts itself so.) 

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home aesthetic

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