#HINDUISM IS TOO GOOD TO BE CONSTRICTED LIKE THIS PLEASE—

[shut-up-rabert]

Rant timeeee

Sometimes I feel like “open minded hindus” need to form a society of our own so to make sure that neither extreme left nor extreme right hijacks the religious movement and give people a wrong Idea of Hinduism.

The way local “Hindu” orgs push for more orthodoxy really scares me. Today I heard a debate on how only salwar kameez and traditional dresses should be allowed in the temple. What is a religious person like me who doesn’t wear trad clothing supposed to do? Not pray anymore?! Not go to temples despite being a god loving Hindu?

What about Vidur’s wife who ran to see Lord Shree Krishna and forgot to put clothes on out of excitement and had to be reminded by him, who was moved by her devotion? What about Mata Bhadrakali who dons skulls, limbs and blood of demons as garments? Are they not respectable women for you?

What the fuck do you mean when you speak of muslim women the way you do? You repay those who harm Hindu Women by doing the same to innocent muslim women? What the fuck do you think women are? What happened to Hari hi Narayani? What happened to us being your equals according to the sacred texts?

What do you mean when you say Lgbtq should be punished? You seem to think you know hinduism more than doctor bhagwat, the RSS chief who unconditionally accepts the validity of Queer existence? More than lord mercury (Budhha, not Budhhā) who loved his partner even tho he turned out to be a different gender than believed? More than lord Shree Krishna who let Shikhandi have his preffered gender? More than Shree Rama who was moved to tears by his Eunech devotees? More than the Narayan who created us all fully knowing what we were going to be?

What should the Queer people who revert to Hindu because of its acceptance do? Revert again? Would your convert hungry self want that?

Do these people not realise how much they are harming Sanatan by this? Not realise that our openness and tolerance to different practices is what makes us, us?

This is not how you preserve Sanatan. The clothes and traditions are a considerable part, but our wisdom and awareness are the major ones.

Protect it from any threat and enemies who want it gone, but don’t go about making enemies from your own people who practice in a different way or aren’t what you want them to be.

If you want to create awareness about Hinduism, learn to be calm and wise and the kind of person a Hindu is supposed to be. Read the sacred texts if you will. Valour plays a big part, but Knowledge and acceptance plays aswell.

*closes powerpoint*

And this is why learned Hindus (and Sanatanis in general) need to speak up more. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk. Your money will be refunded shortly. :)

[builder051]

Oooh, Could you do something where Jason gets sick but tries to power through his day anyway and then ends up passing out in a corridor because he's so dehydrated from throwing up?

Thank you for sending this!  I loved writing it.

_____________________

Jason stares up at the small digital clock embedded in the stark white wall.  It ticks from 1:44 to 1:45.  Five minutes left in this class.  He can make it through.

“Any questions?” the professor is asking.  “No?  Well, I hope that means you have a good handle, then.  I’d love to see a few examples from today’s lecture in your essays.  Which, I’ll remind you, are due in two weeks…”

Jason adjust his gaze down to his notebook, and beneath the wadded up Kleenex, he’s barely scribbled down two lines from the lecture slides.  Fuck.  He digs the heel of his hand into one of his eye sockets, cringing at the touch of his freezing hand against the warm skin of his face.

“Alright, if there are no questions, that’s it for today.  See you on Friday.”  The professor shuts down the projector, dashing Jason’s last chance to try to copy down whatever was just up on the screen.  Oh well.  He feels just shitty enough that he doesn’t quite care.  All his attention is turned to the relief that comes with being let out of class three whole minutes early.

It’s not worth celebrating, though, because it takes Jason almost that long to push his binder into his backpack and make sure all his rogue tissues are safely in his hoodie pockets where they’re beginning to make the soft fabric cold and damp.

He should just go home.  Jason knows he’s running a fever.  He’s swallowed enough of his own snot to give him a stomachache.  But there are two more classes on today’s schedule, and he’s already made the effort to drive to campus.  Plus if he leaves now, there’ll be notes to catch up on, assignments to make up.  And the prospect of the chilly walk to the student parking lot is in itself a good reason to just stay at school.  He ignores the fact that he’ll have to make the trek eventually anyway, lest he spend the night in the humanities building.

Jason’s next class is World Religions, held in the lecture hall at the opposite end of the massive classroom-filled structure.  The walk only takes a moment, and Jason’s usually only too happy to loiter in the ground-floor coffee shop for a while before finding a seat in the theater-like room.  He forgoes his usual latte today, though.  The thought of the warm, frothy milk running down his achy throat and mixing with the mucous already coating it is nauseating, and the scent of coffee drifting from downstairs only makes it worse.

Jason walks slowly along the hallway to the lecture hall.  Each step jostles the throb behind his forehead and makes him fervently wish he hadn’t gotten out of bed this morning.  But he’d felt ok this morning, so he’d wiggled out from under Colby’s arm, gone for a brisk morning jog, and driven to school.  But as the day’s worn on, it’s become clear that he’s not well.  And at this point, it’s starting to feel like an understatement.

Jason selects a seat at the top of the amphitheater, somewhere few other students will sit, as well as near the second-floor exit, just in case he needs to make a quick escape.  Down on the teaching platform below, he young, hip professor adjust his beanie over his dreadlocks and fiddles with the projector, sending a huge image of Ganesh onto the silvery screen.

His brain feels too dim to scour back through last week’s intro to Hinduism notes, so Jason just leans his head back against the wall and wonders if anyone’s ever thought of hosting a movie screening in this well-appointed lecture hall.  The internet connection in the building’s not bad, so it could be an ideal location to watch Netflix.  Maybe he’ll have to propose the idea to student council.

Jason’s nose drips as he bends over his knees to unpack the binder from his book bag.  He snuffs the viscous liquid back up without thinking, then almost chokes as it starts to run down his throat. You’re disgusting, he admonishes himself.  Jason coughs a couple times to try to clear the closing-in feeling from his gullet, but gives up when the professor turns on his microphone and calls the class to order.

World Religions is a sleepy class on the best of days, what with poetic-sounding scripture readings and beautifully colored paintings, and it doesn’t take long for Jason to relax into the rhythm of the professor’s voice.  He shifts in his seat to keep from drifting off.

Hardly a moment later, though, Jason regrets moving.  His stomach, which had been in somewhat dormant discomfort, is suddenly writhing.  His slimy throat constricts, and his hands and feet prickle with icy sweat.

There’s no time to do anything but rush for the door, and that’s what he does, knocking his notes to the floor.  Jason sprints down the deserted hall.  The single occupancy non-gendered bathroom is closest and most private, so he rips the door open and flings himself down in front of the dirty toilet.  The small room smells faintly of marijuana, and it further upsets his stomach.

Jason heaves into the porcelain bowl.  It’s not productive at first, but then a forceful wave of mostly liquid vomit splashes into the toilet water and sends flecks back up onto the seat.  Jason barely has a chance to breathe before more’s coming up.  He can barely recall what he’s eaten today, but so much comes rushing up that Jason suspects it’s everything he’s consumed in the past week.  Or maybe month.

The retches keep coming until it’s only sour yellow-green bile and mucous.  Jason drags a wad of toilet paper across his face, mopping his clammy forehead before wiping his mouth.  He flushes the toilet and watches the mess spin in dizzying spirals before disappearing down the drain.

Jason gets shakily to his feet.  He’s almost at the door, ready to exit to the hallway, when nausea flashes back up and he has to scramble over the toilet again to gag up some saliva and a whole lot of nothing.  “Fuck,” Jason mutters under his breath.

When he’s sure he’s done for good, Jason slowly walks back to the lecture hall, one arm loosely holding his stomach.  He should just run for it now, leave campus for the day and skive off his last class.  But he has to at least duck back in for his backpack, his coat, his keys.  Jason gingerly bends down to get his binder off the floor and tuck the explosion of notebook paper back in.  Head rush almost downs him, but he manages to quickly plant himself back in his chair, tip his head back, and breathe himself back to normal.  There are only 10 minutes left in the 50 minute period. What’s 10 more minutes?  He can press through.

When the huge throng of students starts to exit into the hallway, Jason moves slowly.  He’s already made up his mind to leave campus.  He’s swallowing surges of nausea every few minutes, and his body’s quick switches from hot to cold seem to denote a new stage of fevered agony.

Jason slings his backpack over his shoulder and his coat over his arm, then emerges into the crowded hall.  Students rush on all sides, and annoying people attempting to move against traffic brush against him.  Jason’s nearly at the door that will take him to the staircase to the ground level when his vision suddenly goes white around the edges, and before he knows what’s happening, he’s toppling backward.

His backpack keeps him from bashing his head into the tile floor, and at first he thinks it’s also what made him fall.  Some hooligan grabbing at the shiny blue fabric, trying to either rush past or hold him up.  But then vertigo launches a second assault, and the hallway swims into a blur before his eyes and a feeling of intensely shaky weakness washes through his limbs.

“Oh my god.  Are you ok?”

“Did he fall?”

“I think he passed out.”

“Somebody call 911!”

The shouts around Jason echo in his ears.  It takes several hard blinks to bring any semblance of his surroundings into focus.  A boy he recognizes from his Tuesday morning Creative Writing class is kneeling beside him, looking concerned.

Jason tries to sit up, but he just succeeds in twitching slightly.

“Don’t move,” the boy says.  He pulls on Jason’s shoulder and gets him onto his side.  “Just stay like this.  We’ll wait for the ambulance.”

“I d— don’t need…” Jason chokes.  “No ambulance.”

“But you… you could be hurt.  Or sick.”

“I’m calling 911,” someone announces from over Jason’s head.

“No, please,” Jason says in as loud a whisper as he can manage.  He twitches his hand toward his face to try to rub the disorientation out of his eyes.  “I just…go home.”

“Do you have someone to call?  Your roommate?  Do you live on campus?” Creative Writing boy asks, rapid fire.

“No.  You can…my boyfriend.”  Wait, no.  Colby doesn’t have a car.  Mike should still be on campus, though.  She can give him a ride.  “Call Mike.”

The boy has his phone in hand.  “What’s Mike’s number?”

Jason tells him.  The phone is on speaker, and Jason hears it ringing out.

Then Mike’s trademark bark of “What?” answers.

“Can I talk to Mike?” the boy asks, clearly taken aback by the masculine name and feminine voice.  In his less-than-alert state, Jason’s forgotten to refer to her as Michaela and avoid confusion.

“This is Mike, dumbass,” Mike replies.

“Oh,” Creative Writing boy says, flustered.  “Your, um, Jason?  He just passed out.  In the middle of the hallway.”

“Shit,” Mike says, somewhere between disbelieving and impressed.  “What happened?”

“I don’t know.  He’s sick or something.  I don’t know if he got hurt.  We were going to call an ambulance.”

“No, hold up.  I’m coming,” Mike says.  “What building are you in?”

The boy tells her, and Mike hangs up.

Most of the loitering voyeurs have taken their leave now that the situation’s somewhat resolved, but a few remain gathered around Jason’s prone form until Mike bursts through the glass door a few minutes later.

“Ok, get out of here, weirdos,” Mike demands, manually pushing a couple onlookers out of her way.

Jason raises his head an inch off the ground, his neck trembling with effort.  Mike looks like a windswept twig, but she’s wearing a determined expression that shows she’s really here to help.

“You’re gonna sit up and put your head between your knees,” Mike directs Jason, her voice all business.  She hefts one of his arms and helps him semi-upright.  Once Jason’s repositioned, she asks, “Ok.  What the fuck happened?”

“I feel really bad,” Jason mutters into his jeans.  “I got sick.  Then I got dizzy, I guess…”

“Probably dehydrated yourself,” Mike says sharply.  “I know a thing or two about that.”

“Yeah,” Jason sighs.  “I just…wanna go home.”

Mike’s unzipping her own backpack, and there’s a loud clunk as she sets her metal water bottle down on the tile floor.  “When you can lift your head without feeling like you’re gonna blow chunks, take a few sips of that.  Then I’ll drive you home.”

“You’ve got a fantastic bedside manner there,” Jason teases her weakly.

“Yeah, I know,” Mike sighs.  “But I’m right.”

“You always are,” Jason jabs at her again.  But he knows this time she really is, and for that he’s grateful.