Listen. Really listen.
Not like your aunt telling you a festival story sugar coated in sweets and incense.
Not like the stories recited with folded hands and polished voices, pretending the earth did not bleed.
This is soil scraped from brothels, hands blackened by labor, buffalo horns dripping rage, blood uncounted.
Conches choke on it.
Incense stutters.
Pandals cannot contain it.
Brahma hiccups boons across the cosmos, puking destiny like a god too drunk on his own hubris.
“Immortality? Sure. May no man touch him,” he slurs.
Mahishasura — buffalo-bodied, brown as wet earth, horns sharp as betrayal—laughs.
Problem solved? Except… there is always an except in Hindu mythology. Always.
Before temples. Before incense. Before ritual.
The Asurs thrived.
Brown, alive, singing, dancing, building rivers with their bare hands, shaping the world they owned.
Not demons. Not villains. Just humans who refused to genuflect.
Pandals clap over their graves.
Vermilion smears their skin.
Chants drown their songs.
They are erased, rewritten as monsters
so the gods can sip nectar and call it “order.”
And we cheer.
Because we’ve been taught that fear dressed as ritual is devotion.
Here’s a tip: it isn’t.
Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva — the cosmic circus on permanent acid.
Brahma: spits boons like a toddler on fire.
Vishnu: rearranges avatars like deck chairs on a burning ship.
Shiva: meditates, bored, letting the universe writhe like a snake in acid rain.
They do not bleed.
They do not fight.
They outsource death.
Durga is not empowerment.
She is male incompetence crystallized into a goddess.
Brahma: “I fucked up. No man can touch him.”
Vishnu: “Borrow someone else’s sword. Lazy.”
Shiva: “Meditate. Maybe existential despair kills him.”
And so, she is stitched.
Frankenstein goddess.
Born from fear, ego, and cosmic laziness.
Arms grafted with borrowed weapons: sword, trident, bow — every god too lazy to lift a finger.
Eyes painted by blackened, invisible hands.
Feet molded from brothel soil.
Women erased, forbidden inside the pandal.
Sacred soil. Profane bodies.
Not empowerment.
A weapon forged to solve male panic.
She smiles.
Calm before carnage.
Every weapon a confession of cowardice.
Every step a reflection of male terror in silk and gold.
Lean closer, devout fools. You’re part of this theater too.
The applause? Complicity.
The chants? Compliance.
The buying of trinkets? Denial on sale.
Pandals rise like mausoleums of deceit.
Skinned drums hammer ribs like jackhammers.
Conches blare lies.
Crowd flocks. Claps. Chants. Pretends.
Not courage. Not virtue. Not empowerment.
Control. History rewritten.
Men solving their math problems by making monsters.
Brothel soil. Invisible hands. Women forbidden.
Every chant a knife in memory’s back.
We worship the goddess and spit on the very earth she was molded from.
Horn meets sword.
Claw meets buffalo hide.
Mahishasura fights. Brown. Alive. Proud. Not villain.
Every swing, every roar: “You cannot erase me.”
Durga strikes. Lion roars. Earth shakes.
Blood mixes with rivers, soil with tears, myth with memory.
Every blow rewrites history.
Every kill silences voices.
The Asurs die in myth but live in soil and song.
Durga, weaponized by male fear, moves like cosmic fury.
Brahma sips fermented nectar. Vishnu reclines. Shiva hums.
“Victory,” they mumble.
“Good over evil.”
“Courage. Virtue. Empowerment.”
The gods outsource murder.
The gods never bleed.
Men solve problems by creating monsters.
Clay returns to rivers.
Hands unseen. Women erased. Asurs whisper:
“We were here. We still are.”
We walk home. Drunk on illusion.
Complicit in cosmic farce.
Durga smiles. Mahishasura roars.
The soil, the blood, the bodies erased?
They do not forgive.
Pandals rise again next year. Skinned drums. Conches. Incense.
Cycle repeats.
We clap. Chant. Buy trinkets.
Pretending. Forgetting. Erasing ourselves.
Durga: stitched, smiling, unstoppable.
Mahishasura: horned, roaring, immortal in memory.
The gods: drunk, cowardly, adjusting crowns.
Women: erased, unbowed, enduring.
Soil: sacred, profane, eternal.
Every lion she rides. Every demon she impales.
Every strike. Every roar:
A reflection of male fear, cowardice, and cosmic laziness.
This is the conception of betrayals.
Goddess born not of choice, but necessity.
Myth written not by her, but for her.
Survival, erasure, power, complicity.
We are all performers.
We clap. We chant. We dance.
We say: “Good over evil.”
The soil, blood, bodies erased?
They do not forgive.
Durga smiles.
Mahishasura roars.
The earth remembers.
And so do we, if we dare to see.
Because nothing says ‘good over evil’ like ignoring bodies, soil, caste, blood… and buying into a god stitched from fear, silence, and our own cowardice.
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