A Mythic Monologue of Tulasi, Jalandhara, and the Cost of Cosmic Justice
They call this Tulasi Vivaha — a sacred union, a festival of love and devotion. The women deck me in silks, the men chant my name, the air smells of incense and sugarcane. And I, the bride, stand still. Rooted. Silent. Holy.
Before I was potted, watered, and offered sugarcane, I was Vrinda — flesh and breath, wife and woman. I had a husband, Jalandhara, born of Shiva’s flame and the ocean’s womb. They say he was powerful; I say he was mine. I prayed for his safety, not his glory. For me, he was love — the calm in my storm, the reason I sang hymns.
Later, the bards said my prayers made him invincible. They called it the power of my chastity. Maybe they needed a prettier word to silence their guilt — chastity sounds nobler than love, doesn’t it? It’s easier to glorify a woman’s devotion than admit the gods cheated her.
I remember the day he returned from battle — or so I believed. His eyes, his scent, his voice — every detail was him. I ran to him, joy spilling from me like river water after rain. And then… in that embrace, something was wrong.
When I was violated physically, my anger and shame weakened the aura of pure love I held for Jalandhara. My helplessness and shame destroyed him too.
I had become the destroyer.
The bards, of course, tell it differently. They remember my “pure love” for my husband and call it chastity. They refuse to remember my shame, my helplessness, my anger. They dress my ruin in divine poetry — a convenient fiction.
When Jalandhara died, I knew the real reason — not his sins, not his hubris, but my heartbreak. The gods found their victory in my undoing. And so, when I cursed Vishnu, they said it was wrath. It wasn’t. It was recognition — that dharma comes at a woman’s cost.
When I burned, I thought it was an ending. But even my ashes weren’t left alone. They sprouted into this green mockery — the Tulasi, symbol of devotion and purity. The same devotion that destroyed me.
Every year, they celebrate it. They decorate me, sing songs, light lamps, and call it Tulasi Vivaha. Are they celebrating my devotion or my violation?
Year after year, a reminder of betrayal.
As the women light the evening lamp and pray for their husbands’ long lives, I am amused. My love for my husband was the vehicle for humiliating me. The parody of the bard’s narration! My story is rendered with awe — my so-called chastity restoring the cosmic order — yet my pain, my shame, my helplessness remain hidden.
Does being married off to your violator sound familiar? It should. It’s a story as old as the gods themselves.
They say that Rukmini once used a single Tulasi leaf to balance the scales when she and Sathyabhama argued about who loved Krishna more. How poetic. They say the leaf — me — outweighed all their jewels. And yet, what that leaf truly represented was not Krishna’s love, but the love that once existed between me and Jalandhara. The love that was pure, human, fragile — and yes, angry. It was that anger, born from betrayal, that weakened it. Not impurity. Not sin. Just anguish too heavy to hold.
They chant “Vishnu Priyam.” The beloved of Vishnu.
How does it matter? The beloved never chose to be beloved.
Sometimes I wonder if Krishna ever thinks of me — not the plant, not the goddess, but the woman. The one he deceived. Maybe he does, when the conch echoes through the temple, or when a Tulasi leaf touches his lips in worship. Maybe he tastes the bitterness under the sweetness.
They call me sacred now. They say I am grace incarnate. But what they really worship is the silence of a woman rewritten. They have made me eternal because they could not bear to face what they did to me.
I have become the proof of their virtue, the balm for their conscience. They tell my story as redemption, not resistance. And so, I let them. What else can a root-bound goddess do but smile through irony?
Sometimes, when the night is still, I whisper my truth into the wind. The leaves tremble, carrying my laughter — soft, bitter, knowing. If you listen carefully, between the chants and bells, you’ll hear it too: the sound of a woman amused by the absurdity of her own worship.
I am Vrinda, the protector turned victim, the faithful turned forsaken. My love was mortal, but my pain became divine.
And as the people dance, as lamps flicker and hymns swell, I wonder — not for the first time — if this entire spectacle of Tulasi Pooja is celebration or retribution.
Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.
After all, history is written by the victors — and I was never meant to win.
Author’s Note:
This piece reimagines the myth of Vrinda — known as Tulasi — whose story from Tulasi Vivaha embodies love, loss, and cosmic irony. It is a reflection on the silencing of women’s voices within divine narratives and the unacknowledged cost of cosmic justice.
Read as part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon.
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