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636 pages, Kindle Edition
First published June 3, 2022
‘Whenever men found it hard to justify success, they inevitably fell back on luck as the reason. And if the success was completely unimaginable to their feeble minds, they called it magic.’
‘They are all fascinating. They have talked to Gods, loved like animals, and written songs that would make Sister Mercy cry. Though we will never leave these hallowed walls to see them in person, yet through their tales, we will be their companions. You can look through any of our journals; access is not denied to any Matron. You are one of us now. Treat them with care, for it is your gift, child. Your welcome to the Ballad of the Fallen.’
“‘What do you call an angry sheep and an angry cow?’ Draupadi laughed, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Baaa... aaad moooo... ooood.’”
‘For a Hero of Light, he reckoned he cast a rather grim shadow. Hero. The word slithered nastily in his mind. An honour bestowed upon you when you had killed all those who would have called you a mass murderer.’
‘You have your sword, I have my mind. And a mind can be sharper than any Assyrian blade. We play with the gifts the Gods bestow upon us. And who are they to us? Either carpets to our thrones or casualties on the way.’
‘But Krishna liked that about her. It had made her… realistic about things. She laughed with the knowledge that it wasn’t meant to last, and cried with the self assurance that it was futile. She was like a glacier, relentless and implacable. But eyeing the letter from Panchal, he reckoned that sometimes even a vast glacier could crack into crevasses under deer hooves.’
‘Women are cursed to suffer, thought Draupadi. None can change that… not with complaints, or prayers, or revolution. But one can spit at life and dare it to hurt you more. Draupadi pondered over the likes of Satyabhama, Storm and the other Silver Wolves. Women who had taken charge of their destinies, women fighting their fate. A losing battle perhaps, but a fight nonetheless.’
‘Most ballads say that Luck is a Lady, naked and shapely, reserving her blessings for the most valiant and dashing of heroes. Perhaps this was so as the bards were usually Namins. If Karna had been asked to give his luck a shape, it would have been a female praying mantis, the creature that made love to its mate, then decapitated him and devoured his body for dinner.’
‘It is said that the greatest gift the Gods can give you is to forget about you. And Shishupal wanted nothing more than to spend his life unnoticed by the Gods. A life unnoticed by the Gods is boring and unimaginative, but a happy and long one. And he worked hard to make his life precisely thus.’
‘I know what I said of hate… But vengeance is a sword with a hilt made of jagged glass. You will bleed when you swing this sword. All those kings and their families that I butchered, brought me no peace. No happiness. No satisfaction. Take it from one who has suffered girl, do not walk that path.
‘A day may come when the courage of men fails… but it is not THIS day.’—Tolkien, Lord of the Rings
‘There are few things more dangerous than a man who has nothing to lose.’
‘The end justifies the means... Any end achieved through violence ends in a pit of despair. It is not a destination to aspire to, my friend.’
‘A man is not known by the promises he makes but by those he keeps.’

And who are they to us? Either carpets to our throne or casualties on the way
I have found, at great cost, that the best way to keep your word is by never giving it.
Karna himself was dressed in passably aristocratic style in a caramel-brown knee-length coat that he was sweating in. A mark of a fraud, for the truly rich never sweat.
It is said that the greatest gift the Gods can give you is to forget about you. A life unnoticed by the Gods is boring and unimaginative, but a happy and long one.
There was a time when young Oracles awaiting investiture were made to witness the slaughter of their families, to sear into their souls the futility of hope. This sacred tradition had however, been abandoned by the Matrons over time, in favour of a meeker rite of passage into the House of Oracles. They reckoned the trials of initiation were lessons enough for the novices. Masha, on the other hand, thought the Matrons had grown soft.
Hero. The word slithered nastily in his mind. An honour bestowed upon you when you had killed all those who would have called you a mass murderer.