DEATH IS ETERNAL #420

3,500 words

I’m so uninspired that I don’t even know how to begin this DEATH IS ETERNAL. I’m starting to think I need some time off... Maybe I’ll take December off. Not entirely, because I don’t want to lose my streak, but maybe go with a reduced version of the newsletter. That could work. Let’s see how things will go in the next couple of months.

Contents

1. THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN

2. Writing: work

3. Bye!

4. Life (from September 23 to October 6, 2024)

5. Reviews #331, #332, #333, and #334: GHOSTLORE by Cullen Bunn, Brian Hurtt, Leomacs, and others, ORE: A STARHENGE GRAPHIC NOVELLA by Liam Sharp, INSIDE THE MIND OF A DOG, and COME FLY WITH ME: THE STORY OF PAN AM

6. The end

1. THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN

Shivaji sat in the dim light of his chamber, his mind heavy with the weight of a kingdom he had fought so long and hard to build. The night outside was cool, Raigad Fort standing as an imposing shadow against the sky, symbolizing his power. But tonight, power seemed fleeting, ephemeral. He gazed at the ceremonial clothes laid out for tomorrow’s coronation—a day that should have filled him with pride but instead filled him with doubt.

With their rituals and rules, the Brahmins had reduced his outstanding achievement to a matter of birth and bloodlines. Shivaji had led his people to independence, fighting against the Mughals and the Bijapuri sultans alike, carving out a kingdom from sheer will. Yet here he was, a man who could command armies, kneeling before the same men who once refused him the title of king because he was not born into the Kshatriya varna. He had paid them handsomely, their demands for gold and ritual penance weighing heavier than any battle. And still, they questioned him.

His mother, Jijabai, entered the room quietly, her presence as steady and reassuring as it had always been. She sat beside him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You look troubled, my son,” she said softly.

Shivaji let out a long breath. “Am I to be king, Aai, or merely a puppet to satisfy these Brahmins?”

Jijabai smiled, though there was sadness in her eyes. “You are a king, Shivba. No Brahmin, no ceremony can make you one if you do not believe it yourself.”

He looked at her, the woman who had been his guiding force since childhood, the one who had filled his head with stories of great Hindu rulers, of warriors who fought for justice and honour. But she had also taught him to question, to think for himself.

“They say I am not of Kshatriya blood,” he muttered, his voice bitter. “That I do not wear the sacred thread, that I have no right to claim the title of king.”

Jijabai straightened, her posture regal, as if she were the one to be crowned in the morning. “And yet, here you are, the ruler of an empire, a man who has brought the Mughals to their knees. Do they not see? A king is not born; he is made through fire and struggle.”

Shivaji turned to her, his eyes reflecting the conflict within him. “But the people... they look to the Brahmins for legitimacy. Without their blessing, there will always be those who challenge me.”

Jijabai’s gaze softened, and she took his hand in hers. “The people follow you because they trust you, not because of some ancient thread. You have given them freedom. You have shown them a new way, where a man is judged by his deeds, not his birth.”

He closed his eyes, letting her words wash over him. She was right. His mother was always right. He had fought for Hindavi Swaraj—not just for the Marathas, but for all who lived under the yoke of foreign rule. He had not spilled blood for the approval of a priestly class but for the lives of his people.

And yet, the coronation was necessary. He knew that. The title of Chhatrapati, the pomp, the rituals—it was all part of the world he had been born into. Without it, his authority would remain contested, not just by the Mughals or the sultanates, but by his people. The Maratha chieftains, the sardars—many of them still saw him as their equal. A title, a coronation, would change that.

The preparations had already begun in earnest. Tomorrow, thousands would gather to witness the moment when Shivaji would be crowned their king. The sacred waters from the seven rivers had been brought to Raigad, the throne adorned with gold and silver. Gaga Bhatt, the Brahmin pandit from Varanasi, would officiate, chanting the Vedic mantras and pouring the waters over his head as the world acknowledged him as the rightful ruler of the Marathas.

Yet, even now, more demands arose as the Brahmins were appeased with gold. Some among them claimed that the first coronation had been held under inauspicious stars and that a second ceremony was needed. This game of rituals was a bitter pill to swallow, but Shivaji knew he had to play it.

The following day dawned with the smell of incense thick in the air. The fort was alive with movement as preparations reached their fevered pitch. Shivaji stood before the mirror, dressed in regal splendour, his brow creased in thought. The sacred thread hung around his neck, reminding him of his compromise. It still felt foreign, an uncomfortable token of a status he had supposedly attained, but had he really?

When the time came, the ceremonies unfolded as planned. Shivaji stood tall on the platform, water from the Yamuna, Ganges, and the other sacred rivers cascading over his head, soaking into his robes. The mantras were intoned with precision; the rituals were performed with exactitude. The crowd cheered, fifty thousand voices chanting his name, hailing him as Chhatrapati, the protector of the faith, the founder of a new era.

But amid the spectacle, his thoughts remained elsewhere. He looked out over the crowd, searching for his mother’s face. When he found her standing near the front, her eyes locked with his, and he saw in them the same unshakable belief she had always had in him. In that moment, the doubts that had plagued him began to fade.

The ceremony continued, and Shivaji played his part. But now, something had shifted within him. He realized that the crown, the throne, the titles—they were tools, nothing more. The true power lay not in the rituals but in the spirit of the people who believed in him, the ones who had fought beside him for so many years, and in the values his mother had instilled in him since birth.

When the coronation finally ended, and the crowds began to disperse, Shivaji stood alone on the platform, looking out at the vast expanse of his kingdom. The weight of the crown on his head felt lighter now, as if the burden of proving himself to others had finally lifted.

He was Shivaji, Chhatrapati of the Maratha Empire, not because a Brahmin had declared it so but because he had earned it.

The end

2. Writing: work

Photo by Igor Omilaev on Unsplash

Balancing a regular job with writing feels like juggling fire and water. Each day, I split myself between the demands of my nine-to-five and the creative hunger that writing requires. Writing is not just a hobby or a task I can check off at the end of the day; it’s a full-time commitment of the mind, a marathon of thoughts, imagination, and the constant refining of words. Yet, I have to fit in after the physical and mental fatigue that comes from my “real” job—the one that pays the bills and keeps me afloat but leaves little room for creativity.

The exhaustion hits hard. After hours of meetings, tasks, and deadlines, my mind feels like a sponge wrung dry. But writing demands more. It requires depth of thought, patience, and the kind of cerebral work that isn’t easily turned on and off like a switch. I sit down to write, often late into the night, when my body is ready to surrender, but my brain sparks with ideas that don’t care about how tired I am.

Burnout lurks around the corner, a constant companion when you’re trying to balance both worlds. There’s this relentless push to do it all—be a good employee, deliver at work, and then switch gears to be a writer who can summon creativity and focus. But the reality is that creative energy doesn’t abide by the clock. Some days, it flows freely; other days, it’s a battle even to string a sentence together.

And yet, despite the fatigue, the brain fog, and the burnout, I keep going. I love writing in a way that is hard to explain. It’s not just a passion; it’s a need. There’s something in it that feeds me that makes the exhaustion worthwhile. Every time I sit down to write, it feels like coming home, no matter how hard the day’s been.

I also keep going because I need to work. In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have to choose between these two lives. But in the world I live in, I reconcile both because that’s the reality of being a writer who has bills to pay. It’s a grind, but it’s also where I find the meaning I seek—between the job that sustains me and the writing that saves me.

3. Bye!

Here’s where we say our farewell to the free subscribers. If you want to read the rest of DEATH IS ETERNAL, consider becoming a paying subscriber. If you already are a paying subscriber, first of all, thank you very, very much! And second, I’ll see you on the other side of the paywall.