#AislingWrites

[aisling-writes]

Why the real villain of Chhota Bheem was King Indravarma: A meta-analysis of who he really was.

Alternative Title: An episode where I go nuts and have zero backing behind my essay.

(A note to the readers: This essay does not take into account the existence of the Mighty Little Bheem show. The matter at discussion is purely based on the Chhota Bheem show only.)

Most Indian Children born in the late 2000s can easily recognize the musical ensemble of the theme song of Pogo’s crowned jewel: Chhota Bheem. Eyes were glued to the television and clock ticks were memorised for when the show would start because Chhota Bheem to them was not just an animated show; it was an expression, a memory, a piece of childhood, if you will.

And yet, while watching the show through an “adult” lens, Chhota Bheem leaves a bitter taste in the mouth.

Why?

The answer, I personally believe, is of two aspects. One would be the obvious irritation in how King Indravarma ruled the land, and the other is about how Chhota Bheem was a Mary-Sue and how the show perhaps needed to be styled around Kalia, his imperfections and his character arc. (But that’s for another time.)

Let’s focus on the topic at hand: King Indravarma. He was, bluntly put, a stupid King.

Imagine a King as such in the real world. A King who had no strong Military, who constantly relied on a 10-year-old for any trivial matter whether it was an external threat to the kingdom instead of sending out an army, did not invest in new technology for the betterment of his people and used it for personal gain. The list can go on and on.

The argument presented here is that King Indravarma as a villain is not a bad evil person but rather how his aloofness was the one reason his kingdom suffered. Being a “villain” does not always necessitate violence and crude language; all it requires is to bring harm to others. And King Indravarma, indirectly, does that.

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“Stupidity is a more dangerous enemy of the good than malice.  Dietrich Bonhoeffer ----------------

On the other hand, we can theorize that King Indravarma was merely “acting” to be stupid and always had ulterior motives behind his every move. This argument is also proven along the way when I dissect his character in this essay.

In fact, this essay reaches a conclusion that King Indravarma was a strategist who was…. stupid. A perfect balance. (But not for Dholakpur.)

--

   I.Outsmarting a kid; getting outsmarted by the world.

When scouring through the deep dark pages of the internet, one question plagued me: How did Chhota Bheem get his powers?

Yes, it’s common knowledge that eating a Laddoo gives him super-human strength but how does he get such a power in the first place? Alas, that’s not an answer that the cartoon canon can answer but it is integral to the next question that follows: How did King Indravarma realize Chhota Bheem had such powers? Maybe he never found out because had he, he definitely would’ve chosen to make all his citizens the perfect citizens. (A strategist, remember?)

It’s natural for any parent to desire the safe protection of their child from the dangers of the world. As seen in Spider-Man, Aunt May chooses to protect the identity of Peter as his alter-ego and would go to any extent for his safe keeping. But why didn’t Bheem’s mother do the same? Why didn’t she hide the powers of Bheem?

Or maybe, she did.

She did try to hide it but somehow it reached the ears of King Indravarma. And King Indravarma strategicallydecided to use it to his advantage.

And I say strategic because, by all rights, Bheem deserved official employment. He worked as a protector of the kingdom more than the soldiers ever did.  He could’ve been a member of the royal guards, or a leader of it too. But instead, the king always played along with the HA-HA Bheem- is- just- a- loyal- citizen- who -helps- sometimes card and gave him no remuneration.

This could’ve had two motives: An economic perspective where he didn’t have to pay Bheem for his services and/or a jealous King perspective where he wanted to avoid a 1789 France Bastille-Storming situation. Empowering Bheem and giving him more administrative power on top of the physical power he already had would make him a dangerous weapon. He was already charismatic and loved by the villagers; it would only be a matter of time until they felt that Bheem would be a better leader than the King himself.

The king further added on to this plan by employing some of the most useless soldiers in his army ever therefore making it seem that the King did try to save his kingdom, but it was to no avail. And at some point, he stopped using the soldiers (probably dismissed them, thus saving even more money for his personal gain) and purely relied on Bheem, a kid who he didn’t even have to pay! (And Bheem, being a “kid” did not have the sense of asking for remuneration as well.)[1]

Smart, isn’t he? (King Indravarma, I mean.)

But also, stupid.

By following this method, he made sure that the one key asset that Dholakpur had was revealed to the entire world. He placed the country in danger from threats all the time! (And I truly mean one asset because by its looks Dholakpur had nothing else to offer. The crops often struggled due to pests, the landscape was unappealing to the eyes, it had no tourist’s income etc.) It’s truly surprising how Dholakpur was not already overtaken by some other colonizer or king because all they had to worry about was defeating one kid. Just one kid. (Yes, he’s strong and what not, but Bheem’s got to have some limit?)

-

      II. Economic drain for… what exactly?

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“Th’ abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power.” Brutus in Julius Caesar (2.1.19-20) ----------------

In one episode of Chhota Bheem, King Indravarma had no qualms or shame in announcing that the kingdom had no new bicycles for a bicycle race when the neighbouring kingdom had brand new, shiny bicycles and therefore, Bheem and his friends had to manage with the old bicycles. Either the kingdom was not financially stable to accommodate the purchase of such bicycles, or the king lied that the kingdom had no money.

Let’s explore both the views, shall we?

The kingdom being too “broke” to purchase bicycles implies how financially unsecure it is! Perhaps the kingdom was knee-deep in debts or just refused to spend whatever reserves it had on importing foreign goods. Maybe the kingdom had an import substitution policy (similar to what the post-British India followed) but was not able to implement it seeing how the kingdom had an agrarian economy.

Which brings us to the question: How is an economy expected to grow without any investment in additional technology?

The only source of revenue that was noticed were from the fairs conducted, the crops reaped and Tun-Tun Mossi’s Laddoo sale. And as anyone with two eyes can note: It is not enough. The policies followed by King Indravarma were dangerous to Dholakpur in the short-run and long-run. Inflation was just a door’s knock away for the citizens of Dholakpur! People would’ve been forced to lead even more horrendous lives and forced to spend a bucketful of cash but a pocketful of things! (Again, how the kingdom survived is such a mystery.)

On the other hand, maybe the King just wanted to hold all the gold reserves to himself and did not wish to splurge on any investment in technology for the kingdom. Which again proves how he is a stupid strategist because if he wanted more money, the country needs development. More jobs, more employment brings about higher level of income, GDP and better lifestyle. How are the people supposed to pay taxes to the King if he doesn’t provide them enough opportunity to make money for paying the taxes? It would’ve been more understandable if he invested in their advancement first and then participated in red-tapism and what not.

(Idiot.)

The King, in my opinion, is begging for a Marie Antoinette situation by running around in gold chains and necklaces while his people slog and suffer.

-

     III.   Diplomacy at its finest. Not.

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To say nothing, especially when speaking, is half the art of diplomacy. -Will Durant

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The third, and final facet of why King Indravarma was the real villain is perhaps the shortest and the simplest. [2]

There’s no doubt why Dholakpur was often plagued with terrorists and external threats and challenges from other kingdoms than the neighbouring countries: King Indravarma’s tongue.

Instead of rallying allies and forming alliances with other countries, the king often chose to goad other rulers into competitions of which-kingdom-is-better game which is humorous to think because Dholakpur had no additional advantage except …Bheem. The entire fragile ego of Indravarma’s was built on nothing but a nine-year old boy!

The demise of the King’s pride would be swift and sweet the day Bheem decides to move out of the godforsaken kingdom.

Conclusion

“It is unwise to let a man who isn't king sit on a throne for too long.” ― Costanza Casati, Clytemnestra

Thus, I bring this essay to its end. A hyper-fixation of my childhood has now become a piece of media that will forever make me think of this 1600+ word essay that brings no added meaning to this world.

To you, Bheem, I wish that you escape from the clutches of Indravarma’s stupid reign. Perhaps if the King was just evil I could’ve respected him more. Alas, stupidity is a turn-off.

To you, Dholakpur, I wish that you understand that it’s better to have no king than have Indravarma as a king. Rise and revolt, fellow comrades. History would look kindly upon you.

And to you, King Indravarma, thank you for spoiling my favourite cartoon.

Aisling Elle 16.04.2024

[1] A further note to be added is that the king was a frequent enabler of Child Manipulation because he always made it seem that Bheem voluntarily decided to choose to fight for the kingdom and was not requested by the King. [2] This argument is in reference to the cycle competition that the King engages in with Pehelwanpur.

Part 1 of Random Essays

[my-ships-will-never-be-sank]

hey so im looking to get out of my parents home - highly toxic and my mental health is just deteriorating - and i found an apartment that is in the town near where the majority of my family live.

Its nice from what i can tell but down side is that its €1000 a month + i have no job at the moment.

Any help would be so appreciated

https://www.paypal.me/AislingWrites?locale.x=en_US

[aisling-writes]

16. You're... Leaving

Time remaining: One week

“So, are you ready to go?”

You give a sheepish laughter and shrug, quickly looking elsewhere. The white chairs, the grey ceilings and the holy altar. Perhaps if they see that you’re distracted, they’ll get distracted too.

Eureka! It works.

The Aunty, clad in a heavy chiffon salwar- kameez, ruffles your hair and talks to the next, her long black hair swishing with her every dancing step.

You’ve evaded her and she’s forgotten you. But at what cost? To what extent?

A huge bubble of emotion threatens to spill, but you push it back inside and lock it under key. Not now, not yet. You’ll deal with it later.

Besides, you’ve always had a penchant for procrastination. If you can keep away from assignments and messy rooms, so can emotions wait.

Yes, later.

That sounds nice.

Time remaining: six days

“We have to meet up, man. You’re leaving in six days!”

Right.

Six days.

“Guys, think positively. Six whole days!” You exclaim. “That’s a whole lot of time!”

Your friends eye you suspiciously, as if they don’t believe you.

A small part of you agrees with their look.

Do you truly believe in that?

Right. No. Stuff the emotion back in. Deep inside.

Fake the happiness until it becomes real.

You pull them back inside, the whoosh of the door closing around you encloses you in a hug. A small thought threatens to pop up: This is probably the last time you’d be able to come to this store.

Stuff. It. Inside. Already.

You, instead choose to open the chips packet, the vinegar and salt smell overloading your senses.

See? This is good.

Denial works.

Time remaining: Five days.

“Chechi, I just have five more days left for camp! I’m so excited!”

You smile, genuinely happy for your sister and the fun that awaits her until your neurons fire up and make the connection.

Something bad unfurls in your stomach: A feeling that you’ve not yet experienced or heard of. It’s not jealousy, but a cousin of his perhaps?

You’re leaving for college the next day after your sister’s camp.

The camp she awaits  means it’s time for you to pack your bags and leave.

Oh, Jesus Christ.

You’re … leaving.

The something-feeling settles in your stomach, taking route.

Nope, Nope, Nope.

Get out already!

Divert.

“So Malu, what are your camp plans?,” you ask, waiting to hear her babble of talk that soothes you.

She spills out her words and it runs all around you,

You’re just not sure if you can handle your awaiting spill of emotions anymore.

Time remaining: Four days

Last night was a bust.

Your parents sentenced you back to your room again.

You’ve been sleeping with them for the past two days lying that you’re afraid of the ‘ghost’. Of course, the first day it was genuinely true. You felt like you’d never make it till sunrise and that a lady dressed in white with choppy hair truly awaited you outside your door, but the other two days were a lie.

You realized that you liked sleeping with them because…

You’re…

Leaving.

But that was the end of that thought. You didn’t let it go anywhere.

Instead, you happily slept under the comfort of the weighted blanket and the cold icy A/C air. Like old times. I’m still a kid again.

Until yesterday.

Dada’s backpains were kicking in and he needed a full bed back to himself so, logically, you were out.

You could swear that dada saw the disappointment in your eyes, but you just acted all nonchalant.

Because… ghost problem over, right?

Right.

Then why were your pillows wet the next day morning?

Time remaining: Three days

“You don’t want you brother to be there when you’re entering college the first time?”

What you really wanted to ask was ‘Please tell me it’s not only me who’s being overly emotional’.

“Nope. Let him suffer with his exams.” The girl with the long hair, your friend, answers. She has a cheeky twinkle in her eye, and you’re supposed to share the joke with her but, everything feels like a façade now.

You’ve been lying for too long, anyway.

To others.

To your friends.

To yourself.

What’s one more?

“Ha HA. I know right? Let my sister also suffer. Anyway, she’ll come to visit me in a month anyway!” The lie tumbles out easily.

The moment had so much potential. You finally could’ve spoken to someone, but-

No.

Time remaining: Two days

“I’m skipping the meeting tomorrow. My daughter’s leaving for college in two days, so I want to spend that time with her.” Your mother cuts the call and un-pauses the television. The show goes on and the moment of silence passes.

Two days.

You didn’t realize how fast time flies.

It feels just like yesterday when your examinations were over, and you were promised a sweet, blissful month of doing absolutely nothing.

Where did that go?

In fact, you’re angry now. A week full of choking back your feelings left no other vent other than anger. That seemed like the only feeling that was permitted without you exposing your weakness? (Who are you exposing it to? And what weakness?)

Where did that free month go?!

Time remaining: One day

A flurry of emotions.

Denial.

Stuff it back just like how you’re stuffing the bag with clothes and necessities.

You’re leaving.

The instructions.

“Call your grandma’s every day, okay?”

“I’m not a kid, you know Mama?” You laugh.

You’re leaving.

It’s evening.

 The sun has set and the yellow lights you absolutely hate (I think I love them now) illuminate the room.

An actor on the telly stabs the villain. Yay.

You’re leaving.

“How’s the food?”, Mama asks.

You wish to say it’s the best thing you’ve ever eaten but no. Lie. Lie through your teeth. “Eh, it’s fine.”

“Ha ha. You’re gonna wish you had this in your hostel.”

You’re leaving.

The clock chimes 10.

You’ve to sleep early to board the flight tomorrow.

You still have 8 more hours left. That’s a whole lot of time.

You’re leaving.

 You’re in your room, staring at the ceiling.

No ghost plagues you but only your feelings do.

It’s time.

Slowly, you let open the dam.

The unsaid words are whispered as a prayer. Your tears are your holy words.

 It rushes out.

 It threatens to spill, to pour, to ravage you.

You don’t know who you are without your family, your friends, your home, your church.

And you’re leaving them.

You’re leaving.

No.

No more denial.

You’re leaving.

Time remaining: Zero days

“This is the boarding call for Emirates flight EK563 travelling from Dubai to Bangalore.”

Part 16 of Finding Me

[aisling-writes]

29 July 2023

"Do you cry in front of your mother?", the lady asked me.

It took me a second to realize that she meant me; I was busy chasing a fluttering butterfly with my eyes and making a hypothetical machine with my hands; fidgety did not cover who I was.

"I-", I trailed off. What was the right answer here anyway?

The butterfly fluttered far off, over the heads of my bald principal and his associated lackeys. Yellow and red were a contrasted splash among the white starched painted walls.

"I can't recall," I admitted finally. It was hard to come to a conclusion when you couldn't remember an incident that supported or didn't. It surprised me that my mind was blank.

The lady didn't prod on- the perks of being a psychologist, I suppose.

End of the conversation, one would think.

But it wasn't. Instead, the look my friend shared with me continued it. The lady probably forgot it or didn't. But my friend and I-

No words were passed, but a look.

A knowing I-see-you look.

I suddenly realized the presence of a hole uncovered in me. But why?

At that moment I knew that she and I were the same; we went through the same just that she knew more about it. Kindred spirits in a moment's pause, but I wasn't aware of what connected us.

She told the lady openly that she never cried because it was useless. Her mother never understood. And in all that while, her focus of attention was on me. Understand, she tried telling me. Understand.

I didn't see the butterfly anymore. The red and yellow among the white had flown away.

But.

Today, I got my answer. I saw what connected me and my friend.

My friend had foreseen what would happen in my house today. 29 July 2023. Crying was banned, a taboo. Usually, children run to their mothers and weep their hearts out in their comforting hands but I was told to stop. What's the point of crying? my mother asked.

"Do you cry in front of your mother?"

All those moments that lay dormant when the lady asked me bobbed up to the surface, threatening to spill out. And when I cried today, it wasn't just the day's events; it was for all the other times when my overflowing dam was forced to shut off, grating against its walls.

My friend knew.

My friend flipping knew.

[aisling-writes]

2.

It must have been a mistake that the fates made; Alas, all I am is an old soul stuck in a body fueled with vigour and life.  Aware that the life that I long for is not all that I dream it to be, And yet, I can’t help but feed the old soul with romantics, Of notions, Of wishes, The what-I-could-have-Been’s had I been born decades earlier.  The yellowed-out album pages slither it’s tendrils up to me, And slowly suck the joy of living in my age. I’m but a withering soul in a sprite-ful body, My mouth can’t swallow the bitter chew of the present. “I’m not meant to be here,” I cry out, but the winds swallow my whispered tears.  Am I the only soul that feels such a heavy burden on the heart,  or is it a universal empathy shared?  Whatever the answer, it makes not an iota of a difference,  because the life I long for is out of reach.  And yet, one must trudge on, And hope that the remnants of the past still stay rooted in the now; That when the winds of change blow our way, I don’t feel any more out of place than I must, And move on with life with soulful bliss  Of knowing that I’ve made a rickety heaven in my broken haven. 

Part 2 of I bleed gold on my guitar

[aisling-writes]

1.

Sometimes the urge to just be fills me up; Up to the brim, water in the jug. It threatens to spill,  to pour,  to bring about an avalanche of feelings.  I can see it swallowing everything, consuming like a forest fire, an ever-burning passion; but instead of leaving in its swathes, dead leaves and insects, instead of the burned ashes of what once was, it leads to the clearing of the old and the fresh blossoming of the new.

Part 1 of I bleed gold on my guitar

[aisling-writes]

15. Hypothetically

It's stupid to have butterflies making a home in your stomach for no reason.

Why, I chide my "stomach".

I know nothing about him, or who he is, or what his whole name is and yet, my winged devils are convinced that he is the right guy. Mr.Right.

It's not like I see him every day in real life (but I see him every night in my dreams, doesn't that matter?) but I know everything that is to know about him.

Hypothetically.

We lie beside each other, fingers tangled, and talk about the day. He knows how my breath hitches every time he rubs his thumb rubs my fingers or when he assures me and says that a bad day was not my fault; he knows, he knows.

Hypothetically.

I'm fine imagining how his lips against mine would hypothetically be; how his hypothetical sense of humour gets me; how his hypothetical smile rips my heart into pieces and I'm fine, I'm fine and I'm fine.

I'm fine.

Part 15 of Finding Me

[aisling-writes]

I saw humans the size of my sister's old Lego toys from the height of my balcony and for a second I felt like I was powerful and could change the narrative of human life. Sadly, humans are not tantamount to legos, dear children. That's a lesson one must learn.

[aisling-writes]

14. Tighter

I think it's funny how one can assume that they and them are not close but suddenly, they show you a piece of poetry that they read in a blue glossy book, shaking with excitement and them realizes that maybe, just maybe, the bond between people can grow tighter without one's notice.

Part 14 of Finding Me

[aisling-writes]

13. Mind Palace

They say a mind palace is the best way to remember things. Think of your house and associate every nook with the information you want. Presto chango remember. 

And I do. 

 I remember the summer months lazing under the swaying fan, the black centipede inching towards the flowers while we sit on the grainy steps, my hot tears and flashes which you couldn’t understand at the dining table, the funny jam commercial that we saw on the new-but-old telly. 

They say a mind palace is the best way to remember things. But my nook and corners are filled with memories. 

Part 13 of Finding Me

[aisling-writes]

I’m writing on Tumblr right now and I see Grammarly's push-up notifications telling me that it can write it for me, just give it prompts and cues. Even ChatGPT does the same and I've seen people use it for literary reasons like story writing.

Why? Just, why?

It scares the marbles out of me that one day I won't have a choice anymore- the choice to push aside the AI voice in literature. Because it's just a matter of time until the AI books in the market will be indistinguishable and would have the mastered human element in them. People are not going to be looking at whether one in flesh and blood wrote it or one that's living mechanically as long as it's good.

Humankind has always survived the constant changes and challenges that history provided. Whether it was fighting an animal in the wild or braving the desert climate of the Arabian Gulf, man prospered. But now the fight is between something that can be perfected. Something that humans are not. The competition that was once between man and man has now transformed into that between man and machine. And it fears me that maybe man would not be the emergent winner this time.

[aisling-writes]

Name: Aisling

Works: Finding Me I bleed gold on my guitar

Find me on AO3 for Marvel fanfiction!

[aisling-writes]

12. Ephemeral

I wish to be like all those poetic souls, who see beauty in life evermore; the sunlight as the rays of heaven, the blue night as nature’s longing, who become alive in everything ephemeral, but the truth is everything is beautiful, so they live forevermore in all around them.

Part 12 of Finding Me

[aisling-writes]

11. Wishes and fishes

If wishes are fishes, I say. Not because I understand the saying, but because I think of the tiny colour souls swimming in my aquarium at home, flecks of blue flashing off their shiny bodies. They wriggle through water, bubbles plopping out every second or two.

 I think anyone would like to be a fish; so funny.

Maybe even wishes wish to be a fish.

If only wishes became fishes.

Part 11 of Finding Me

[aisling-writes]

10. There's a bitter taste in my mouth and I don't like it

Is it possible to feel bitter when someone you’ve talked to for barely 10 minutes in your whole lifetime is leaving?

It’s stupid, I think. Feelings.

And yet, it’s happening altogether.

A sort of admiration of a person you’ve had, who you’ve respected with a distance maintained in between because intimidation was the key word of the relationship you both had, and who barely knew you and you, them, and yet… yet to feel a small pang of something in your heart—like a part of you that you never knew you had was influenced by them.

I was maybe 11 or 12 when I first saw him. Auditions. I got selected for the group song. He was the teacher.

Everyone was comfortable around him. Laughed, joked around. Had inside jokes. And I didn’t. In fact, it was expected. Being the youngest in the whole teenagers’ group had its drawbacks. He was strict for all matters of singing. A god-like prodigy, or so it seemed. (It’s another thing that I’ve noticed: As the years go by, the impressionable loses its allure. I wonder why. I miss that.) I suppose that strictness he showed “I’ll call those who sing improperly to the front” stayed. But not in fear but rather, reverence. Curiosity. A wish to pluck open his brain and dissect it and swallow all the musical knowledge that he was a storehouse of.

Years went by, competitions came and went. He taught me, and I learned. He gave me the nickname ‘Jo’ but I suppose it’s because he forgot my name. Or maybe he didn’t know it before, and now he did, and yet, the name stuck.

Doesn’t make an iota of a difference.

We still talked less. Maybe twice a year. A miracle if we talked more than that.

I feel like an idiot for not talking any more than I did. I could’ve. I should’ve. Regrets are common inhabitants in my soul nowadays.

He’s leaving in two weeks. But those two weeks aren’t any added arsenal in my bag because I won’t be there due to other programs. I kind of wish I didn’t have those programs anymore though.

But why?

All for a teacher who never knew was my teacher?

Stupidity, if anything.

And yet… I can only watch from a distance. As an onlooker, a passer-by. A person who made up more imaginative scenarios in their head about moments they would share in the harmony of music. Mentor and mentee.

But there’s no point in telling or wishing anything anymore.

He made an impact, however small.

And I feel bitter.

Part 10 of Finding Me

[aisling-writes]

9. He never hit anyone

When I was a little kid you raised your hand at me. You were drunk stupid, the smell of alcohol reeking off of you. I screamed, cowered, waiting for the imminent blow.

It never came.

For a moment, the haze of alcohol wiped away from your eyes. It shone with understanding and regret. You pushed me aside roughly, trying not to commit a mistake before things got worse. Not to bruise me physically.

And yet, internally, the deed was done.

 I was hurt.

You forgot this incident, but I never did. Ten years have passed, and yet… time heals no wounds.

Yesterday in school we talked of ‘sparing the rod and spoiling the child’. Many were for the notion. I think, I was the only one against it. Against the motion. Against the class. Against the world. Because, if the ‘would be’ strike that I was to receive from you made a dent in me, imagine the everyday nonsensical beatings I was sure to get hadn’t you restrained.

I still get nightmares.

I still disassociate from that memory.

I still think that a little child was there in my position that day. Not me. Because my father dear never hits anyone.

Part 9 of Finding Me