#sounds of isha

[bieddiediaz]

whats according to you the most realistic ways they could go about making buddie canon on the show

realistically? i'm not sure they're going to go there, but if they do, in true 911 fashion it's gotta be following a big emergency or incident during which one or both of them are forced to contend with their mortality — and at least one of them needs to have a Realisation™ before then, so that the GA doesn't think it came completely out of nowhere. they also need to give eddie a coming out arc, as well as resolve the clusterfuck they set up in s7, which will take anywhere from half a season to the full season — so imo if they're going there they could tie that into either the coming out arc or the buddie arc, depending on how much weight and time they want to give either of those. but if they do, i don't see how they can stretch it longer than s8 — we already feel like we're going in circles a little bit, because so much of the buildup and the foundation has already been done without actually getting to the finish line, and s8 is kind of like a. either commit or just don't do it situation already

[itaviv]

[rrxindrops]

If you don’t hear from me anytime soon it’s bc im dead. It looks tiny on picture but it’s a big one😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[timothywinters]

yeah i'm into musicals

[9misoundsystem]

Wicked and Bonny x Mexican Stepper x Isha Bel - Babylon Crash

[m3g00mi]

wtf is wrong with the neighbors dog like actually

[azeemarahman]

It is the first night of Ramadan. Ali makes the same journey that he has for the past 22 years. He walks down the same streets, once filled with the night sounds of children laughing and women chatting, the scent of coffee wafting from cafes that stay open for suhoor, the sight of streetlights and dainty lamps and scattered stars, the feeling of moving along with the hustle and bustle of men rushing towards the call of the adhan. The same streets are now eerily silent, whispers of du’a barely audible, no sound of women or children, not enough men to form a crowd, no electricity to fuel the lights, the cafes and buildings crumbled to rubble and dust, the graveyard of a city that once came to life at night.

Ali prays Tarawih on the ruins of the mosque he grew up in.

It is the fifth night of Ramadan. Ali thinks back to the time he first entered this mosque. At four years old, he walked through the doors, his excitement contained within four stone walls. Rays of sun bounced off of tall windows, casting light onto Ali, running around in circles as his father prayed Asr. Ali remembers climbing onto his father’s back as he went down into sujood; he remembers his father putting his head down slower the second time; he remembers standing in front of his father, poking his head and waiting for him to finish; he remembers his father smiling at him and taking Ali into his arms as he completed his du’a; he remembers his father blowing the barakah of his du’as into his hands and blanketing Ali in that same barakah. He remembers his laughter as he did the same back to his father. He remembers the laughter of the other children ringing through the mosque’s four walls.

There are no longer walls to contain the sound, no longer children with any laughter.

It is the 12th night of Ramadan. Ali remembers being 15, in a circle of his friends as they learned the Qur’an. He remembers the giggles and whispers that passed when the teacher’s head was down. He remembers his cheeks flushing as the teacher caught him talking to his friends. He remembers every mistake he made when he first recited Surah Mulk by memory. He remembers his teacher’s sigh when he gave the same lecture for the hundredth time that day. He remembers seeing his teacher smile for the first time when he recited the Surah with no mistakes.

Ali attended the Janazah prayer of his teacher in this very mosque only three Ramadan’s ago.

It is the 14th night of Ramadan. Ali remembers being only 21 when he had his Nikkah. He remembers his cousin sisters decorating the entrance of the mosque. He remembers his mother cooking enough to feed an entire masjid full of worshippers. He remembers his father sitting him down and lecturing him on the responsibilities to come. He remembers the laugh that came after as he told him the blessings that were to follow. Ali remembers the smile that broke as his father told him how proud he was of him. He remembers his father blowing the breath of his du’as on him once more, just like the day he first entered the mosque. He remembers Fatima entering the mosque and thinking they were destined for one another, right down to their names. He remembers lifting her veil the moment they were officially wedded. He remembers their first hug, shy and small and sweet; he remembers wrapping his thobe around her; he remembers the first Salah he led her in and taking her by the hand to lead her out of the mosque, together this time.

Fatima hasn’t entered the mosque since she witnessed her sister being shot on the musallah that their mum gifted her.

It is the 17th night of Ramadan. Ali remembers being 23, rushing into the mosque with a smile just before Isha, exclaiming how Fatima had blessed him with a daughter. He remembers that despite the ongoing attacks, the hugs and smiles and tears and du’as were abundant among the brothers he prayed beside. He remembers looking forward to the day he could bring his daughter into the mosque and she could climb on his back the same way Ali used to climb on his father’s.

Ali’s daughter went missing from the mosque only two nights ago.

It is the 20th night of Ramadan. Ali remembers being 24 and opening his fast with his brother-in-law beside him. He remembers not having much for iftar, but at least having enough dates and bread to feed all of the worshippers that day.

The worshippers lessen as the genocide continues, and yet there is not enough bread to go around.

It is the 27th night of Ramadan. Ali remembers being 25, watching and being part of all the brothers immersed in their prayers and du’as during what may have been Laylatul Qadr. He remembers brothers praying for safe returns, for the healing of loved ones, for the protection of their Lord.

Ali was reluctant to lift his head from the rubble as he prayed for his daughter to come home.

It is Eid day. Ali enters the mosque to pray Eid Salah. He remembers how Ramadan always passes in the blink of an eye. He contemplates the first Ramadan he spent praying on the ruins of his local mosque instead of within its four walls. He ruminates over how the worshippers lessened and lessened from that first night of Tarawih. He remembers attending the Janazah of the ones who were at least blessed enough to be found. He dreads how this Eid prayer will be followed by Janazah prayer, after Janazah prayer, after Janazah prayer.

Ali begs Allah that none of those prayers are reserved for his daughter.

-azeemarahman

*please note this story is fiction.

[Translations:

Ramadan - the month when Muslims fast from the time of the dawn prayer to sunset.

Suhoor - the pre-dawn meal.

Adhan - the call to prayer.

Dư'a - supplication.

Tarawih - Sunnah prayer performed in Ramadan.

Asr - afternoon prayer.

Sujood - an action during prayer whereby the forehead is lowered to the ground.

Barakah - blessings.

Quran - the Holy Book of Islam.

Surah Mulk - 67th chapter of the Qur'an, meaning 'The Sovereignty'.

Surah - a chapter of the Qur'an.

Janazah - funeral.

Nikkah - Islamic marriage ceremony.

Masjid - mosque.

Thobe - traditional garment.

Salah - prayer.

Musallah - prayer mat.

Isha - night prayer.

Iftar - the meal in which Muslims open their fast.

Laylatul Qadr - the Night of Power.

Eid (ul-Fitr) - celebration at the end of Ramadan.]

[envysparkler]

Natalia gets out of the car to stare at a row of oceanfront warehouses that are, remarkably, not on fire.

“Huh,” she says to her partner.  “I thought you said Hood called this in.”

“I did!” Isha remarks, as upbeat as ever.  “Maybe he’s gotten therapy for those pyromaniac tendencies.”

Natalia snorts.  Fat chance.  The Bats are allergic to therapy—anyone who dresses up to fight crime is certainly not dealing with their feelings in a constructive manner.  Before she can point out to Isha that every one of the agents in their office are woefully behind on their mandated therapy—it’s hard finding a decent therapist that isn’t also moonlighting at Arkham, and no one wants to drive to Metropolis and traumatize those poor counselors—her phone rings.

She stares at the familiar name and exhales slowly.  “Boyfriend?” Isha remarks with a knowing smile.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Natalia snaps.  She’s not supposed to be answering personal calls while she’s doing her job, but Rafa can and will start calling everyone around her if she doesn’t pick up.  He’s gotten a bit clingy since he found out that Deathstroke is her neighbor.  Isha, for some reason, finds it cute.

“Hi Rafa, good evening, I haven’t been murdered yet,” she answers, turning away from Isha’s smirk.

“That sounds great, queriña,” Rafa chirps.  “How are the neighbors?”

“Existing,” Natalia replies.  “You know, you really have to stop these check-in calls.  Dick isn’t going to hurt me, Slade doesn’t take contracts in Gotham, and people have stopped believing me when I say you’re not my boyfriend.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“Rafa,” Natalia rolls her eyes.

“You would not be having these problems if you came back to San Diego like I suggested,” Rafa offers.

“I’d love to come back to San Diego,” Natalia says, “I really would, if it weren’t for the minor problem of all the people there that want me dead.”

“Gotham has people who want you dead,” Rafa says darkly.

“Gotham also has people who want me alive,” Natalia says.

“I want you alive.”

“And if Gustavo del Toro asked you to again get rid of the pesky FBI-agent-shaped thorn in his side, this time permanently?”

Silence.

“Goodbye, Rafa,” she says with a tone of finality, and cuts the call.  She’s lost patience with his protectiveness, coming as it does with terms and conditions.   She’d consider changing her number, but it didn’t work the last time, and besides, she has bigger problems than a sulky assassin on the other side of the country.

“How’s the boyfriend doing, Agent Padilla?” a mechanized voice asks.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Natalia growls as she spins to face the Red Hood.  Hood raises gloved hands in the universal sign of placation.  “Did your explosives fail to detonate or did you run out of bombs, Hood?  I know it’s too much to hope that you decided not to make our jobs more difficult by setting all our evidence on fire.”

“I prefer to think of it as cleansing.”

“And I prefer to get home to bed at a reasonable hour, but clearly that isn’t working out for me,” Natalia says coolly.  “What do you have for us?”

[youremyheaven]

this might be a kinda niche observation but i have noticed women who are venusian plus saturnian are Not very nice 😭 i know two women who's entire chart is basically 50/50 venusian naks and saturn naks and one thing i've noticed they both do is try to remix traditional gender roles into some sort of female empowerment thing

for example, one of them is constantly going on dates with older rich men which by itself is like fine whatever but she tries to act like she's this genius feminist for doing it. like no babe.... you're still conforming to gender roles by essentially selling yourself to rich men to eventually become their spoiled housewife, if anything she's putting a capitalistic spin on it. i think this is because of the saturnian urge to conform to traditions meshing with the venusian urge to date lots and surround yourself with money and beauty

the second girl is obsessed with traditional beauty standards for im assuming the same reason. she literally often says things like "i love entering a room and knowing i'm the prettiest one there" and "walking down the street watching people gawk because i'm the most beautiful one here". it's so cringe and low vibrational, not to mention misogynistic yet just like the other girl she tries to put a feminist spin on it. she has a whole twitter account dedicated to unlocking your "divine feminine", which is a real thing but she does it in such an incorrect way like telling people what plastic surgery they need to be "perfect" and of course, how to attract a rich man. it's a combo of venusian vanity and saturnian rule following (the beauty standards being the rules)

also, they both HATE eachother 😭

that sounds about right ngl

I feel like Venusian women who are not drawn to the arts and are somehow unable to channel their creativity make it their sole purpose in life to pursue romance and 😬it kind of messes them up?? My grandma is Purvaphalguni Moon and she was a very talented singer back in the day and wanted to study Music in college but her family was against it and made her study to be a teacher and then she ended up marrying my grandad and also cheating on him and ngl it ruined her life,,, anywayyss I feel like Venusians were meant to pursue all of the themes of Venus, ESPECIALLY its creativity because art will fulfil you in ways no man or relationship can and in the absence of it, all this excessive materialistic pursuit of relationships brings out the corrosiveness of Venus.

Venus is capable of immense devotional spirituality, its not a shallow planet or influence by any means but to get to the spirituality (of any planet tbh) one has to transcend its more superficial material manifestations. I think Venusian fixation on romance, relationships etc can be very damning. I know a Purvaphalguni Moon girl who cannot be single for even a second and she said she can't get married because she will cheat on him 😭

I know several Venusians who are like you mentioned but damn that Venus and Saturn combination you talked about is lethal,, they can lead themselves to such a shallow hollow and empty life. Ngl I feel like all those "dating coaches" online who talk about "10 ways to marry a rich man" are all Venusian/Saturnian women and sorry to break it but I promise it never works out. If a man knows that you're with him for his money, I promise you no amount of money he throws at you will be worth the mind games and psychological abuse that will ensue.

I have a friend, Bharani stellium who is from a well to do family but she dreams of marrying someone filthy rich and being a housewife. She's also Saturnian lmao but I feel like her idealized visions of being someone's trophy wife will lead to some bitter experiences. Bc first of all Indian men are trash, second of all, rich people are trash and a rich Indian man and his family are probably capable of god knows what insanity. I think about that video of Shah Rukh Khan, aka the biggest actor the country has ever seen at Isha Ambani's (billionaire's daughter) twins birthday party where they'd brought out snakes??? (rich ppl things bc who tf would bring snakes to a toddler's bday party??) and Isha's brother picks up a snake and puts it on SRK's shoulder from behind, catching him off guard. Like ik its obviously not poisonous but like ??? thats so rude??? imagine just putting a snake on someone without their consent??? its that asshole's entitlement that makes him believe he can get away with anything. any video of the Ambani kids is a testament to them being rich assholes but anyways point is, rich people are fucked up and its insane to me that women want to sign away their autonomy by marrying into these families??? like are they dumb??? how naive do you have to be to believe that they'll be rich AND nice to you?? lol?? and you cannot raise a finger against them bc money will silence everyone, even the courts. look at what happened to amber heard and what's happening to angelina jolie. these are powerful, influential women, not housewives to rich douchebags but even then, they suffer. now what would happen to a regular woman???

anybody who dreams of being a trophy wife feels absolutely delusional to me. its so important to maintain your independence. like by all means i want to marry rich but i dont ever want to be in a position where im financially dependent on a man. THATS DANGEROUS. quite literally.

[i-cant-sing]

Wait your god has never disappointed you before that sounds really nice I’m happy for you when I pray to my god I always feel like nothing happens like I was having a breakdown and asked god for an answer and no response

Omg I don't wanna sound like I'm trying brain wash u or inviting u to a cult, but like Islam as a religion? The best. I am not kidding when I say that Allah has never disappointed me. Everything I have ever asked for, I either got it (immeadiately or with delay), did not get it and realised it was harmful for me, GOT SOMETHING BETTER THAN WHAT I ASKED FOR.

Allah and me? He is my Lord and Provider and God, but also like my best friend because when no one got me, HE GOT ME. I think there's been one too many times in my life when I'm like "there's nothing else humanly possible for me to do anything about this." And then Allah steps in and is like "I'm here! What you want?"

Like idc what religion or spiritual thing you guys have going on, there's just that one time, one experience where deep down, you know that some higher power was at play. There's just no way this is all a coincidence.

I BOMB a test, and like I know, I KNOW I'm gonna fail it, but I pray to Allah to just let me pass and HE HELPSSSS.

I ask for a holiday, Allah gives me a holiday. I ask for weight loss without working out? I lose 7 kgs. I feel sad or depressed or insomnia? I pray (usually Isha or Tahajud) AND ITS GOOD MENTAL HEALTH WEEK FOR ME.

Love you Allah💖🫶

And like not to mention, Islam as a religion has already told us about so many things that are now backed up by science, but Islam did it like what??? 2500 years ago??? Like waking up early, or about the earthquakes and natural disasters, or why you should sit or drink in a particular posture. (Also it mentioned a lot about current world affairs as well- Palestine). But not only that, the prophetic stories are so beautiful and heart touching. Like did I bawl like a baby when I read about Ali and Fatima's love story (and also the Ashura tragedy) and Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) interactions and guidance and heartbreaks and sufferings and 😭😭😭😭

[brownglitter]

अहंनिर्विकल्पॊनिराकाररूपॊविभुत्वाच्चसर्वत्रसर्वेन्द्रियाणाम्

नचासंगतंनैवमुक्तिर्नमेय:चिदानन्दरूप:शिवोऽहम्शिवोऽहम्॥

I am devoid of duality, my form is formlessness, I am omnipresent, I exist everywhere, pervading all senses, I am neither attached, neither free nor limited, I am the form of consciousness and bliss, I am Shiva (that which is not)...

-Nirvana Shatakam by Adi Shankaracharya

[blackknight-100]

if i could request a prompt, a ramayana au! where rama goes to valmiki’s ashram to request sita to come back (as he does in some retellings) and gets a glimpse into how she’s lived all of these years, if the unit she and luv-lush have become and feels decidedly like an outsider. thank you!

Hello there! Thank you for the prompt. I haven't read any such retelling where Rama goes to request her to come back (unless you mean the one when Sita goes back into the earth, and I don't think you mean that?) so I hope this piece works for you:

It is Lakshmana who drives his chariot all the way to Valmiki’s aashram and offers him a hug of encouragement. A short, stocky woman in a saffron angavastra and a bun at the nape of her neck notices them first. Rama introduces himself and his brother, and watches with a wretched feeling in his gut as she gives them both a strained smile, introduces herself as Isha, and invites Rama in. To Lakshmana she says sternly, though not ungraciously, “Perhaps, it would be better if you wait outside.”

Rama opens his mouth to protest, daunted by the thought of facing this alone, and perhaps even a little peeved by the insinuation that his brother had done wrong by his wife; but Lakshmana touches his arm, bows, and answers, “As you wish, devi.”

Isha ushers him past residents going about their daily tasks and introduces him only to those curious enough to ask. She settles him under an old banyan tree, fetches him a glass of water with jaggery, tells him to wait, and then disappears.

Not long after, she returns and takes him past a different section, around the back and to a thatched hut in a corner. Rama immediately discerns this is where Sita must live. There is a little garden around the track leading to the door, and the flourishing greenery bears the marks of her care. In the verandah is a straw chair, amateurly made but well loved. Isha, who had gone in, now comes out with two little boys, one in each hand, and nods at him. “You can go in,” she tells him, “but do not wander around alone. This is the women’s section.”

It is only when she and her charges are out of sight that he realizes those two must have been his sons. He has heard, of course, of the twins – Lav and Kush, but for the first time he knows their faces. The thought of it nearly brings him to his knees and it is with some difficulty that he drags himself in.

Janaki, as he sees her now, is much changed. No longer is she the delightful princess he met so long ago. She is thin, her face gaunt from the labour of raising her children so far from the family that was supposed to aid her. And yet she still shines brighter than the Sun that fathered the Raghu clan, and if Rama ever harboured notions of getting over his love and loss, he now knows he was sorely mistaken.

“Sita,” he murmurs, and how broken a sound it is! What use is his kingship if he cannot have what he wants with all his heart? This is the woman he has waged a war for, the one who has borne his children, and the one who he has forsaken.

“Rama,” she murmurs back, and he can hear the suppressed tears trying to burst out. But this Sita is not the blushing girl he wedded in Mithila. This Sita has lived through the humiliation of an Agni-Pariksha, has endured the ignominy of being forsaken. Sorrow has brightened the fire in her eyes, misery has pressed her lips close together. She now stands straight and tall, assured in her ability to walk through horrors untold. This Sita will not be won over by lifting a bow.

“Please,” Rama says – and what a day, that Ayodhya’s king has come to beg – “please, come back. Come home with me.”

“And then?” she asks.

“I will fix everything,” Rama promises. There is a desperation in him that he can no longer suppress. He cannot hold her eye, and he cannot look away. All around him are traces of a hard life he has not lived – three straw mats propped on the wall, an earthen pitcher draped with a moist white cloth, utensils stacked neatly on a rack. “Come home, Sita,” he pleads, and weeps.

Sita’s hands are rough on his face, marred with callouses. She draws him close to her, and he leans onwards, shuddering like a man dying as her lips touch his forehead in benediction.

“I love you,” she tells him, and it is like pressing down on a much-loved bruise, painful and intoxicating all at once. “I have loved you all my life, and I will continue doing so forever. But I cannot go back.”

Rama’s voice is a whisper when he speaks, a prayer at the temple of her soul. “Why?”

Sita laughs. It is not the same resonant sound as before, bright as a bell. This laugh is a softer tinkle, tinged with the memory of what is, and what has been. “Do I not get an apology?” she teases.

Rama opens his mouth, a hundred protestations and regrets bubbling up even as shame colours his cheeks.

Sita shakes her head. “Where is your dharma, scion of Raghu? What will the people say?”

“The people miss you,” Rama says, and Sita scoffs.

“Bharat can be King,” Rama bursts out, unable to bear the harshness of that sound. “He has done this before. I will… we will go away together. Sitey, we will make something for ourselves, I…”

There is a scuffling sound, and Sita lets go of his face. Clutching his arm, she hauls him to his feet and steps outside. The loss of her touch stings, like someone has poured ice-cold water over him and he follows her blindly, seeking that relief again.

“Maa!” It is all the warning they have before the twins dash around the corner, all muddy clothes and twigs tangled in their hair. A calf prances in right after them, mooing out to the whole world.

Sita frowns like a switch has been flipped. She gives them both a severe look. “Where is Isha? And which of you freed him?”

“I don’t know. I saw him and he was getting bored,” Lav (or was it Kush?) pouts. “And we were bored too.”

Beside him, his twin draws a line in the mud with his toes, giggling. Sita stares at it for a long while.

“Maa! Bhaiyya poked me,” the first boy complains, and Rama feels a rush of relief knowing he had not guessed wrong.

“I didn’t,” Kush protests.

Sita places a hand on each of their shoulders, herds them to the calf. ���Go, return him. It is bad manners to let loose animals in the aashram.”

Lav clutches the edge of her pallu, his little lips wobbling. “I wasn’t trying to be bad.”

“I know,” Sita sighs and presses a kiss to each of their foreheads. Rama’s heart aches. They cannot be older than six years, Taksh is, after all, just five. They are just babies, really.

Kush tugs his brother’s arm. “Come,” he says, side-eying Rama. Lav quietens down and follows him.

Sita watches him watch them go. “Do you think they would be better off in the Palace?” she asks eventually.

“Not if you aren’t there,” he replies. And it is true, he thinks bitterly.

Sita twists her fingers, pulls her pallu closer. “I will think on it,” she promises, and Rama holds those words close to his heart.

“I must go now,” he says, although he wants to do anything but. Sita does not seem particularly offended though. “I will see you off,” she offers, and he thinks it’s better she has the time to reflect on everything.

Outside, Lakshmana is sitting on a rock, talking softly with Lav and Kush. The calf is sprawled across the ground with its head on his knee, making soft, contented noises from all the petting. He stands when he notices them, and the boys let out identical shrieks of alarm.

“We’re going!” Kush yells, dragging the poor creature away.

Beside him, Sita rolls her eyes. “Go faster.”

They wait till the children are gone before approaching, and Lakshmana bows down to touch her feet.

Rama watches with a foreign pang in his chest as his brother apologizes profusely to his wife, and Sita, ever-loving, pats his shoulders and forgives him with a hug. Lakshmana volunteers information about her parents and sisters and she listens with the rapture of a chataka witnessing the year’s first rains, and Rama barely manages not to be jealous.

They leave much later with well-meaning goodbyes, and Lakshmana extracts a second invitation to the aashram. When Rama gets on to the chariot, all he knows is failure and loss.

But Lakshmana does not drive them home. He leads the horses half a mile into the jungle and swings around to look at him. “You are upset,” he says. It is not a question.

“I messed up,” Rama tells him bitterly. It is hard to conceal his resentment now that the whole world is against him. He had sent away his wife to please his people, against the wishes of all his family. And now the same citizens of Ayodhya denounce and scorn him, and his brothers look to him warily, as if to guard his sisters-in-law from a similar fate. Dasaratha had chosen his wife over his people and paid for it, and now Rama pays for the contrary. What is, then, the right answer?

“Did you apologize or explain?” Lakshmana asks.

Rama bites his lip, barely refrains from losing his temper. How is this my fault? he wants to ask. Have I not suffered as well?

Lakshmana touches his arm, gives him a compassionate look. “When we had the boys,” he begins, and Rama has to smile at the thought of them, “we – Urmila and I – fought a lot. One of those times, it was my fault. I will not tell you want happened, and I hope you will not ask, because you will be very angry, but suffice to say it was bad.”

Rama sits down, blinks at him, interested now. “And then?”

Lakshmana gives him a sheepish smile. “I was too bull-headed to accept that it was my fault. But Urmila came up and said that she was sorry for acting the way she did, and that she could see my point. I was, as you can understand, mortified.”

“Huh,” Rama says, surprised. This is not how fights between Sita’s sister and Sumitra’s oldest usually end.

“Anyway, I told her that no, it was my fault, and she should not have to step back when she had been correct. And then, bhaiyya, Urmila told me something really important. She said when we fight someone we love, we should step back for a moment, and apologize even if we weren’t wrong, so we could initiate a conversation about what happened and how to prevent it.”

“…oh,” Rama says, for lack of a better response. “That is… very mature.”

His brother nods sagely. “There is never a dull moment with Janak’s daughter. But you see what I’m trying to say?” “Yes,” Rama breathes, pieces falling into place. “Let’s go back, I will tell her! Lakshmana!”

But Lakshmana merely settles back in, shakes his head. “Not today,” he advises. “Let her have some time to see what she wants. Too long we have tried to mold her into what she should have been, instead of appreciating what she was. We will come back another day.”

Rama doesn’t want to go, not to that empty Palace in Ayodhya that is no longer home. But he takes his brother’s words to heart and listens. After all, if he cannot trust Lakshmana, he can trust no one.

[zeldaelmo]

Inspired by this super cute art by @erikaember! For @zelinkcommunity 's prompt 'in another life'.

Thanks at @bahbahhh for betaing last-minute. 💕

Summary: The three golden rules of a jeweler are discretion, politeness, and subtlety. No big deal for Isha, Gerudo Town's jewelry shopkeeper, but there's one customer who keeps her on her toes.

Warnings: none. Words: ~3k. Spoilers for the dragon tears quest.

Excerpt:

Her head shoots up. The display table makes a sound she doesn't appreciate. Shake, shake, the stone pillar goes on its pedestal and the cushion with the diamond circlet leans dangerously to the left. Isha has a scolding on her lips, but something about his rashness of putting the jewelry back on its spot makes her pause. He's skittish like a sand seal.

"What brings you here tonight? How can I help you?" she asks instead, politeness forced back into her voice by the experience of years of customer service.

"Oh, uhm," he stutters, fingering the tassel of the cushion before he realizes what he's doing and withdraws his hands. "I, actually, I don't know if you can help me. It's a rather unusual requ— I should just go again. Thank you for your time."

Isha puts her hands on her hips and leans forward. "If you don't tell me what it is that you want, I can't tell you if I can help you."

"Eh, right," he says and stands next to the stone pillar as if he wants to beat it in its immobility.

"So?" Isha presses. There's a job hidden behind his nervousness, she can feel it in the scar on her index that she got when her mother still maintained the shop and she was the apprentice. Maybe something for a girl. Or a boy, who can tell?

[kulay-ng-banaag]

A Gentle Reminder

One visits the other to rekindle the light. (Indonesia/Philippines) Warnings: -anxiety attacks (mild at best but the buildup is there) -smoking -politics (one side more explicitly than the other) Read on AO3 (registered users only)

[ Photo from Pinterest; have not yet traced back the photographer. ]

☼ ☼ ☼

The sound of running water cuts off as he turns the faucet knob. Glassware, ceramic dishes, and steel utensils clanked together in the sink bowl. The atmosphere was filled with the revving of motorbikes, the rusty booms of the azan signaling the hour of Isha, and the lucid voices that beamed from the newscast playing on the TV.

Once he finished scrubbing the table and the counters clean, he popped open a bottle of milk tea and flopped down on the sofa. Even with his tito Bikol’s cooking, he had never developed as strong a spice tolerance as he would have liked. Neither had he developed a language proficiency on par with the locals, despite the many letters exchanged and visits conducted. At least not in the same capacity as he had hundreds of years ago, but even the lingua francas of old were as mutable as clay, and the living things molded out of it.

Like all other things, nations changed over time. Philippines was no stranger to that truth.

All he had to do was keep tabs on the news from the other side of the screen, observing the inevitable winds of change. Once he foresaw the calm before the storm, he quickly scraped together in the wee hours enough necessities to suffice a week of travel. The closest to a formal notice he left behind was the blunt instructions he texted to a handful of staff handpicked by his gut feeling.

If anyone asks, I’m in Jakarta 👋🏽✈️

Nothing more.

He could fabricate a working visit out of nowhere, but it would almost certainly be followed up by a slew of questions regarding his rationales. His true intentions. His commitments to the burdens he never signed up for in the first place. People would express — as a request or not — their want for his presence, but rarely their need for it.

Not Indonesia. Not explicitly, at least. He gracefully wielded a commanding presence in public, but he was a closed book in the private sphere. A core of scorching hot earth buried deep that could explode with the right amount of pressure. Under the right conditions, a volcano could erupt violently. Once it did, there was no stopping its flow of destruction. The best Philippines could do was to be the ocean waves awaiting the incoming lava flow.

He listened intently to the stories broadcasted in front of him. It would be a mistake to call Philippines a tone-deaf airhead when he learned, painfully and repeatedly, to temper how his instincts would translate into his body language. In the comfort of his partner’s abode in the capital — at least for the time being — he was free to unravel the mask he wore in public.

The cracks began to form on the level-headed expression he maintained ever since he made landfall where he was not supposed to be. Through all the reports and commentaries as close to impartiality (or not) as they could get, he could see the wars of emotions taking place. Abstracted exhilaration on one end, ineffable grief on the other, and in between the buried pains had begun to fizzle and release steam. He would rather tune out the cries of despair and rage until they all dwindled together into empty static. With his arms crossed, his hands were already gripping tightly on his sleeves and he could already feel his heart beating as if it wanted to break out of his rib cage, away from the memories that were flooding in. Memories of pain and terror that he wished he could forget, but could not afford to.

What snapped him back to reality were the sounds of the front door clicking shut, followed by the taps of leather soles against the terracotta tiles that ascended to the upper floor. The silence of a lover in anguish was louder than the discordant harmonies of an agitated country.

He shut the TV off and made his way upstairs, down the hallway, and towards the open archway that led to the balcony. As he knocked his hand gently against the hardwood frame, a breeze wafted through the bamboo wind chimes above, almost as if Ibu Pertiwi wanted to ensure her guest was acknowledged.

Already, a lit kretek dangled between Indonesia’s fingers (one of which had an unmistakable ink stain at the tip). If Philippines had never cared about preserving his vocal cords, he would have succumbed to the vice as hard as Indonesia had. He only ever smoked when he was under extreme stress, and it surprised many at how infrequent that was.

The last time he lit one up for himself was two years ago, for the same reasons that Indonesia was going through now.

He sat down on the empty chair next to Indonesia’s, unfazed by the burning scent of bitter herbs and spices. Besides, the electric fan standing across them was whirring in their direction, out of respect for the other songbird that lived in the same space.

Philippines glanced up at the brightly-colored wicker cage hanging above on the opposite end of the balcony. He whistled a little tune, and the feathered resident within chirped back in reply.

“He’s healing up well.”

Philippines glanced back in surprise from hearing Indonesia speak up at last.

“I’ll be taking him to a rehab center in Kalimantan. That way, I’ll be around by the time they release him back to the wild.”

“That’s good to hear,” Philippines replied.

Indonesia pressed the end of the cigarette to his lips, then exhaled a puff of smoke. “I hope he doesn’t get caught again.”

“Oh.”

The soft smile on Philippines’ face faded from the realization. Often, Indonesia would foster rescues in critical conditions. At the time of the raid, the songbird was a sickly hatchling. Not only did it make a full recovery, but it chattered so much that the only bigger chatterbox was Philippines (who had pursed his lips like a child making tampo when Indonesia made the joke). Still, even with such a hopeful future ahead of it, there remained the risk of recapture, the violent return to a system that gambled on its ability to satisfy lofty aspirations, and swiftly disposed of those that failed to keep up.

Such a possibility seemed so far-fetched, yet the lack of certainty only served to tighten the suffocating grip of fear. Indonesia and Philippines knew that all too well. Centuries ago, when they had professed their love for one another, they were torn apart by conquerors from far away. Centuries later, when they had renewed their vows for one another, they were torn again by tyrants from within. Decades later, they broke free of those cages, only to return to a world they struggled to adapt to.

Now, they were birds at risk of recapture.

Minutes passed as they sat together in silence, struggling to keep themselves afloat lest they drowned from the millions of clashing voices that burned inside them both. Whatever the outcome, inevitable or not, Philippines would rather burn brightly in hell with Indonesia than abandon him, even if it meant he could at least march onward with most, if not all, pieces of himself intact. Maybe that was the problem, to begin with.

Yet, despite everything, the world continued its revolution around the sun. People continued to move forward with their lives, refusing to let anything or anyone take that away from them. The caged bird continued to sing, even in the face of an unambiguous future.

Indonesia exhaled a last puff of smoke before stubbing out the cigarette in the sand-filled ashtray. Philippines drew his knees up and scooted closer when he felt Indonesia lean onto him. He wrapped Indonesia’s arm around his and their hands slowly entwined together.

Philippines was the first to speak. “Abang?”

“Hm?”

“Do you remember what you told me two years ago? When I was going through what you’re going through now?”

Indonesia remained silent as he recalled.

By that point in time, Philippines was as battered and bruised as anyone, and had been bleeding all over for too long for comfort. Indonesia would easily admit that Philippines was luckier for breaking free a good decade earlier than he would. What he disliked to admit was how it had made him anxious when Philippines would not respond for days, weeks even. That had been his way of learning about how the final results would be of such paramount importance that its reverberations would be felt across the world.

Indonesia’s sole regret was that he did not see Philippines sooner, let alone immediately. Indonesia knew better than anyone, however, that Philippines, for all his exuberance, was the type to push people away when he was upset. He did not even want to celebrate his birthday that year. The next time Indonesia heard from him was when he sent a message that he was arriving a week ahead of the scheduled state visit.

Philippines had remained steadfast against all odds in the crucial months building up to that pivotal moment. He had snuck away to help distribute meals to volunteers who had lightened the load of an immense burden off his shoulders to the best of their abilities. Ultimately, he was desperate to get an up-close-and-personal glimpse of the numbers that were coming in.

He excused himself to get away from the monsters that manifested before his eyes. The flowers of hope still bloomed in many parts, but a bramble of sharp thorns had been growing at a suffocatingly exponential rate that threatened to engulf the whole garden. Philippines felt it crawl up onto his skin and pierce itself onto his very being, causing him to stumble in the empty hallway. It was brightly lit, but it grew increasingly cold and dark. The walls had begun to close in, threatening to crush him if the thorns did not yet thoroughly impale through him first. He wanted to cry out in pain. He wanted to scream for help, but he found himself unable to speak. Or maybe no one could hear him.

Suddenly, he sensed the light ding of a bell and a mild buzz from his pocket. With shaky hands, he pulled out his cell phone and stared at the message that flashed on his screen. He took a step back and steadied himself against the wall before slumping down to the floor. He sat there in the comfortable silence of the empty hallway. He gasped for breath as he held down the outburst of emotions that had welled up in him. A smile radiated across his face, trembling lips notwithstanding, as he rubbed the back of his hand against the tears that had flowed down.

Philippines remembered that moment. He would always remember those words that had been the lifeline he failed to admit that he needed. He wanted Indonesia to remember them, too, forevermore.

Indonesia let out a sigh before finally responding, “I remember.” He was caught by surprise when he felt a hand cup his face to wipe the tear that had trickled down, the faint scent of jasmine emanating from it. He turned to gaze back at the warm gaze of his beloved pearl, remembering how he longed to see them again after years of confined stillness. How he longed to hear his phone ping and see something, anything, new from Philippines. How he had been sitting in drab and stifling formalities. How he had stepped out for a breath of fresh air and passed that onwards to breathe back life into someone from over 2,700 kilometers away. How he wanted Philippines to have something to hold on to, no matter how bleak and dark it got.

He wished he could be kinder to himself, and he was grateful that Philippines was there to remind him.

They gently pressed their foreheads together, and Philippines leaned closer to press his lips against Indonesia’s. He whispered those same words Indonesia had told him before wrapping him in a tight embrace.

I love you, no matter the results.

☼ ☼ ☼

TRANSLATIONS:

azan: The Muslim call to daily prayer (salat). The last one, Isha, is at nighttime. In this age of modernity, loudspeakers play the azan from the mosques. tito: Uncle (Tagalog). It’s not restricted to addressing a biological relative; very often it’s used to address older men like how we use “sir” in English. Ibu Pertiwi: lit. “Mother Earth” in this case; A historical national personification of Indonesia. In my honest opinion, using the local name slapped harder than merely writing “mother nature.” kretek: Indonesian cigarette blend of tobacco and cloves as the main ingredients. tampo: Tricky to translate into words — it’s ten times easier to demonstrate in person. In this context, think of a parent telling their child they should eat their ampalaya (bitter gourd) and the child makes this face >:T abang: Older brother (Bahasa Indonesia); same as how kuya (Tagalog) is used to refer to older peers/upperclassmen (as in like the senior-year senpais, not the elite trapos if you get lmao). Sometimes also a casual way of calling people “sir.”

MISCELLANEOUS:

Frankly, I’ve only ever been to East Java (mostly in Surabaya), so if I missed out on any observable nuances from Jakarta, that’s on me. I also wrote this on a whim of inspiration and spite. In minimized general, Philippine cuisine builds on a sour base with salty or sweet complements. However, spicy is king in Northern and Southern Luzon, and Southern Mindanao. One of my classmates is Bicolana, so eating spicy Indonesian food is a no-brainer for her. Fortunately, they have plenty of milk tea in stock in convenience stores in Indonesia…for those who need a little help in neutralizing the spicy taste HAHA! Someday, I’ll talk about my bayan OCs. Not today. I need more time ironing them out; time I simply do not have right now. For now, Bikol is he/they. Going back to my trip, I saw so many households with pet birds. I ended up learning about how the popularity of songbird competitions drives wildlife trafficking. 🥲 Speaking of which, I headcanon Indonesia as a wildlife officer. Half to restore balance to the universe for the cursed fact that he’s technically a cop; the other half because if Piri is the musically-gifted Disney Princess, then Indo is the forest friend Disney Princess. Kalimantan because that is where they’re constructing the new capital city of Nusantara because Jakarta is sinking among other reasons. Since the dirt children have to work closely with their governments – whether they like it or not (or choose to lol) – Indo would have to eventually move in, assuming it comes through (just saying because my home city was supposed to be the new capital but clearly that flopped lol). The bird rehab center is very real. It’s my first time learning of the place — thanks to me getting insecure about making it up. 😭 Specifically, Piri was at the Parish Pastoral Council for Responsible Voting (PPCRV) command center. It’s non-partisan but affiliated with the Catholic Church in the country; we have another watchdog entity without any religious affiliation – the National Citizens' Movement for Free Election (NAMFREL). The volunteers were encoding election returns in tallying the votes. One of my dearest friends was fast enough to sign up. I had wanted to draw a 612 comic right after Halalan 2022. Scrapped it altogether because I was horribly depressed, so to say. Then, during one of those many low points, I cooked up that plot bunny when Indo texts Piri those words (the last phrase of the fic). Still, I couldn’t get a comic together any sooner, even if it was a shorter one featuring that plot bunny, as I’ve since returned to university. Following the news and social media posts on Indonesia’s post-elections definitely brought back painful memories. And that plot bunny. Originally, I wanted a far shorter but no less cathartic drabble. Ended up going really ham. I wish I could do more. I hope this is enough.

[sharenadraculea]

Naruto-Characters as Warhammer 40k-factions

After doing something like this with atla-characters, I thought it was fun to do this with Naruto-characters. Again, this is gonna be very silly. Also all 40k factions, not just astartes-legions

Itachi: Night Lords. Renegade that uses copious amounts of terror tactics and there would be a lot more dead if someone else did the job (which doesn‘t justify what they did). Also fan favorites with black eyes, black hair and pale skin. Tough upon further thinking, Harlequin might also work? Very strong, insanly fast, kind of fragile and the terror tactics are more mind fuckery than skining people. Kisame: Carcharodons. Guys with a sharktheme and a lust for blood and I like them a lot. Samehada is allready nearly a chainsword! Sasori: The Mechanicum greatly appreciates your effort in replacing your flesh with machine-bits. Also human-puppets are pretty close to servitors Hidan: Gruesome murder for the sake of gruesome murder and personal entertainment? Sounds like the Drukhari are gonna love him. He even prolongs his life with the suffering of others! Or Slaanesh. Slaanesh would also work just not aesthetically. Kakuzu: Rogue Trader. Near infinite personal freedom and a ton of money? Yeah, he would be up for that (also they are allowed to keep Drukhari around) Konan: I‘m gonna say Sisters of Battle or Sisters of Silence, I can‘t quite remember if she sees Nagato more as a god or just a powerfull guy.

Tobirama: Inquisition. Just look at the guy who invented necromancy to use undead as a never ending tide of bombs and tell me that he wouldn‘t enjoy a little exterminatus from time to time and having waaay too much power over people. Hashirama: I‘m gonna say Exodite Eldar just for the nature-theme. Maybe also avatar of Isha? They are usually nice and have healing stuff, but you still don‘t wanna piss them of Madara: Chaos champion or demon prince, maybe he get‘s a upgrade at some point. Either Khorne or Chaos undivided, because while he does a lot of war and murders a lot of people, he also does some other stuff.

Tsunade, Shizune and Sakura: Space Marine Apothecary. Tanky battle medic. Gaara: Blood Angels. Starts out bloodcrazy and only wanting to fight but he get‘s better and ends up beeing a pretty nice guy. Also both are from deserts. Sasuke: Raven Guard maybe? He‘s suitably emo looking and Raven Guard and Night Lords really dislike each other. Orochimaru: Magos Biologis or Drukhari Homuculi coven. Doing weird, definetly unethical human experimentation as one does. Kabuto: Necrons or maybe something Nurgely? Just a guy commanding legions of the undead. Thousand Sons might also work, a sorcerer controlling empty hulls of what once were people.

Hyuuga-clan: Navigator House, eyerelated superpowers they are super secretive about, a lot of power but isolated from wider society and definetly too much inbreeding Jinchuuriki: Maybe Titans Princeps? Humans capable of controlling giant Battle-things but if they aren‘t carefull, that things mind can take over.

These are just the ones I came up with, if you have more or disagre with one of my classifications, feel free to add your opinion!

[namitha]

I am not the mind, the intellect, the ego or the memory, I am not the ears, the skin, the nose or the eyes, I am not space, not earth, not fire, water or wind, I am the form of consciousness and bliss, I am the eternal Shiva…

I am not the breath, nor the five elements, I am not matter, nor the 5 sheaths of consciousness Nor am I the speech, the hands, or the feet, I am the form of consciousness and bliss, I am the eternal Shiva…

There is no like or dislike in me, no greed or delusion, I know not pride or jealousy, I have no duty, no desire for wealth, lust or liberation, I am the form of consciousness and bliss, I am the eternal Shiva…

No virtue or vice, no pleasure or pain, I need no mantras, no pilgrimage, no scriptures or rituals, I am not the experienced, nor the experience itself, I am the form of consciousness and bliss, I am the eternal Shiva…

I have no fear of death, no caste or creed, I have no father, no mother, for I was never born, I am not a relative, nor a friend, nor a teacher nor a student, I am the form of consciousness and bliss, I am the eternal Shiva…

I am devoid of duality, my form is formlessness, I exist everywhere, pervading all senses, I am neither attached, neither free nor captive, I am the form of consciousness and bliss, I am the eternal Shiva…

🌿 Adi Shankara, Nirvana Shatakam

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