#bheema

[friend-shaped-but]

Yudhishthir: That's my little brother!!!! Bheem, built like a brick wall, easily going above 7 feet, and with a deepass voice: Yup, that's me. His uhh. little. brother

[jabbering-on-jaya]

Bheem: God, give me patience.

Duryodhan: I think you mean 'give me strength'.

Bheem: If God gave me any more strength, you'd be dead.

[yumjum414]

Shakuni Mama aur Shraapit Seedhiyan- Mahabharat crack fic Series Part I

The halls of Hastinapura had seen countless battles, both in the court and on the training grounds. They had witnessed the thunderous steps of warriors, the hushed whispers of conspiracies, and the resounding laughter of carefree princes. But on this particular afternoon, the halls bore witness to something truly unforgettable-something that would go unspoken in formal gatherings but live on in the hearts (and suppressed laughter) of the Kuru princes for years to come.

It all started, as many disasters did, with Bhima.

The young Pandava, already a force of nature at his age, had just been dismissed from his lessons along with his brothers and cousins. The elders-Bhishma, Guru Drona, and Shakuni-were leading the way down the long, grand staircase that connected the higher halls to the central court. It was a staircase worthy of its royal residents: steep, wide, and polished to a near-miraculous shine by the tireless palace attendants.

And, as it turned out, far too polished.

Bhima, unwilling to walk like a normal human being, decided to sprint up the last few steps. Why? No one knew. Perhaps he was racing an imaginary opponent. Perhaps he had just remembered that lunch was being served soon. Perhaps he was simply Bhima.

Regardless of his reasons, the results were catastrophic.

The moment Bhima reached the top, his sandal betrayed him. It slipped-a treacherous, traitorous little movement that sent his foot skidding out from under him. The great warrior-to-be flailed, arms windmilling, desperately grasping for anything to steady himself.

Fate, ever the mischievous force, provided him with something.

Shakuni’s cloak.

For a brief, glorious second, Shakuni was not a man.

He was a spectacle.

One moment, he had been walking with his usual air of practiced elegance, his fine robes flowing behind him as he engaged Bhishma in conversation. The next moment-he was airborne.

His feet lifted clean off the ground, his arms flailed, and his mouth opened-but no words came out, only a stunned, undignified gasp. His turban, that ever-present symbol of his regal composure, tilted precariously to one side.

And then, gravity remembered him.

Shakuni descended.

Not gracefully. Not heroically. Not with the composed dignity of a statesman. No, he rolled.

His long cloak, the very thing that had betrayed him, tangled around his legs, turning what might have been a simple fall into a grand, tragic performance. His staff, once held with the poise of a master strategist, clattered ahead of him, announcing his descent like a herald announcing a king’s arrival-except this king was tumbling helplessly down a flight of stairs.

First, he lurched forward. Then, he twisted midair. Then-thump, thump, thump-down he went, step by step, his arms flapping wildly in a last, desperate attempt to regain control of his fate.

The grand staircase of Hastinapura had never seen such an event before.

And it would never, ever see one like it again.

At the top of the stairs, the young Kuru princes froze.

This was a moment of great crisis.

Not because Shakuni might be injured-no, that was secondary. The real crisis was not laughing.

Duryodhana and Arjuna made the fatal mistake of looking at each other. Their expressions, which had started as carefully composed masks of concern, cracked immediately.

Nakula and Sahadeva stood as still as statues, the effort of holding back their laughter written all over their faces. Sahadeva was biting his tongue. Nakula’s shoulders were trembling.

And Yudhishthira-oh, poor Yudhishthira-looked as though he was suffering the torments of the gods themselves. His hands were clenched into fists, pressed against his mouth as he struggled desperately to maintain some semblance of dignity. His eyes were wide, pleading with the heavens for strength.

And Bhima?

Bhima, the root cause of this disaster, was trying to be the responsible one. He stepped forward, schooling his expression into what he probably thought was a look of deep concern.

“Shakuni Mama,” he said, in a voice that was just a little too strained, “are you well?”

It was a valiant attempt.

Unfortunately, his voice cracked halfway through.

The effort to suppress their laughter reached its breaking point. Duryodhana’s lips twitched. Arjuna coughed violently. Nakula turned away, pretending to examine a very interesting section of the wall.

The entire hall was silent.

The ministers, the soldiers, the attendants-everyone was holding their breath.

Bhishma, ever the composed patriarch, stroked his beard and nodded thoughtfully, as though he had just witnessed a fascinating philosophical lesson unfold before him. Guru Drona, to his credit, maintained his usual impassive expression, though his fingers twitched ever so slightly.

And then-Shakuni rose.

The fallen prince of Gandhara stood, slowly and shakily.

With the precision of a man who refused to acknowledge what had just happened, he adjusted his turban, straightened his robes, and calmly dusted off his shoulders.

Then, in a voice so controlled it could have been carved from stone, he declared:

“I am perfectly fine, mere bachche”

He paused.

Then, with a pointed look at the offending staircase, he added, “The stairs, however, are treacherous.”

Silence.

And then, Bhishma, in his infinite wisdom, gave a sage nod.

“Indeed,” he said gravely. “The stairs are quite polished.”

The princes lost their battle.

Yudhishthira turned away, his entire body shaking. Duryodhana let out a strangled noise that could have been a cough-or a suppressed howl of laughter. Nakula buried his face in his sleeve. Sahadeva looked like he had physically left his body to avoid the disgrace.

And Bhima?

Bhima covered his mouth, his shoulders heaving.

Shakuni, either unwilling or unable to acknowledge the suffering of his audience, simply gathered what was left of his pride and walked away.

He did not stalk off in anger. He did not rage or scowl. He merely left, as if nothing had happened, as if his descent down the grand staircase of Hastinapura had been a deliberate choice-an elegant, calculated maneuver.

But from that day on, the young Kuru princes knew.

And every time Shakuni passed by, if Bhima happened to look at him for just a little too long-

Bhima would cough.

And immediately pretend to be deeply, deeply interested in something else.

[hum-suffer]

It's A Farce

It's a farce, Sahdev thinks, as Yuddhishthir smiles at him and tells him that he's fine, it's not a big deal. The wound on his eldest brother's bicep bleeds and curls, and for a moment all Sahdev can think is: I did this. I asked him to accompany me. I should have seen that uneven field. How could I let any animal near my brother? The skin on the inside of his mouth turns red as he keeps biting it, and Yuddhishthir laughs, throwing an arm around Sahdev and the curve of his elbow matches the curve of his wound.

It's a farce, Sahdev thinks, as Bheem tells him about a grey coloured flower, about how it's the nature of the flower and not Sahdev's neglect of the tree and he feels the ache of a lifetime rush in his eyes as he stares at a flower, dead and cold, because he forgot to give it to Mata. Bheem puts the dead flower in his hair with pride, claiming Sahdev as a new botanist, and Sahdev swears that he will make something that will have Bheem's name echoed through the world, name a flower after him.

It's a farce, Sahdev thinks, as Arjun holds him close and tells him tales untrue about their father. Neither of the boys remember his voice, and Arjun holds him all the time when he realises that Sahdev doesn't even know that he has a maternal uncle— he barely remembers how his mother sounded like. Arjun tells him long tales, laughable pranks, and tales of victories. Sahdev falls asleep in his arms, and as his eyes close, he feels a tear that isn't his, rolling down his cheek.

It's a farce, Sahdev thinks, as Nakul pretends that he isn't hungry anymore and fights with Mata about eating the same sweet fruits and pushes all of his fruits in Sahdev's direction and stomps off to find some other fruits for himself. Sahdev waits for him, even as everyone else falls asleep, and even if he can't see that well in the dark of the night, he knows there are no residual fruit juices on Nakul's fingers. Sahdev sneakily wipes his dirty hands before Nakul can see and feeds his brother the fruits that he collected, even when Nakul says he's full. Nakul eats all of the fruits, even the too ripe ones, with a crooked proud smile.

It's a farce, Sahdev thinks, as Mata tells them they'll be safe with their cousins in the royal family. Cousin Suyodhan seems to take it as a personal insult whenever Sahdev and his brothers are more comfortable in their asharam, their years of experience in forest comes handy and Sahdev feels eyes burning into his hands as he starts a fire for the food. Sahdev burns his fingers that day, and Sushasan says he's sorry for accidentally bumping into Sahdev.

It's a farce, Sahdev thinks, as Mama Shakuni tells them about their stay in a palace built especially for them, which doesn't require fire to be illuminated because there are mirrors all over the palace that reflect the moonlight. The palace is drenched in silver light, and Sahdev takes a deep breath as he appreciates the beauty of it and it is then that he smells the wax and turns around, just in time to see Yuddhishthir's hand almost slip from the wall he is leaning on.

It's a farce, Sahdev thinks, as Vasudev tells them that they may go home and live a happy life after being married to Krishnaa. She doesn't talk to anyone for days on end, but he sometimes catches her whimpering in the night, and he can't help but run a hand down her hair when she pretends to sleep on the hay. It's his first time comforting someone, and his hand is trembling and unsteady, he worries it'll be too heavy to rest on her head and hovers awkwardly. Her eyes don't open until morning, but the next night onwards, she sleeps beside him and doesn't open her eyes until dawn.

It's a farce, Sahdev thinks, as their land is divided and everyone seems so pained but no one will say anything to cousin Duryodhan and uncle Dhritrashtra and Sahdev feels the burn marks on his fingers go tighter and Mata knows him too well because she sends him a look and he keeps his words in his throat, burning again.

It's a farce, Sahdev thinks, as they receive an invitation. It's a farce. It's a farce. It's a farce. It's a farce.

No one looks at him to ask what is wrong as he kneels and chokes on air that night in his room. There's no arm around his shoulders, no flower in his hands, no stories in his ears, no fingers that pinch his cheeks, no comforting presence beside him, and no wise words.

It's a farce, Sahdev thinks, as he sees his own nephew burn in a pyre. He wishes he was burning instead. Fire kissed, the heirs of Pandu. Scorched. Yuddhishthir's burnt hands, Bheem's burning eyes, Arjun's scorching words, Nakul's furious sword, Sahdev's burnt fingers and— Abhimanyu's burnt body.

It's a farce, Sahdev thinks, as he kneels and holds his sosn to his chest, telling them that the war will end soon and they'll go home and it will all be fine and they're doing the right thing. He presses kisses to his sons and nephews, telling them all that they just need to pass this time, it's a whirlpool of death and they just need to hold steady and it'll all be fine.

It's a farce. It's a farce. It's a farce. It's a farce. It's a farce. It's a farce. It's a farce.

The day his children die, Sahdev uses his dagger to scrape off two birthmarks that he had passed onto his sons. Shrutsena, his wise child, had a dark blotch of a birthmark that Sahdev had passed on. Shrutsena wore it with pride on his neck and Sahdev scrapes off his own birthmark that rests on his clavicle. Suhotra had an almost half moon shaped birthmark passed onto him, he touched it whenever he was angry. The skin around his mark on his elbow was always red, just because of his temperament and the consequential habit. Sahdev scrapes off the same mark from his left calf.

The blood feels like a farce.

Does blood really matter, these days?

[incorrectmahabharatquotes]

Duryodhan: How do you just eat when there's a dead guy laying there?

Bheem: What, is that rude? Am I supposed to share?

[lilavatilikeslemons]

PANDAVAPANCHALIWEEK

DAY 2: Bheema and Draupadi

@pandavapanchaliweek

----

Nityayauvani

The one who is ever-young.

Being born out of a sacred fire, there were some things she had to learn to become accustomed with.

One of these things was trying to wrap her head around just how many delicacies made up a royal feast.

It was one of those..silly, small things she was confused about- at least compared to whatever managed to take form in her life, looking back.

She remembered taking on the daunting task of preparing a feast for Vikrodara; when she had first heard of his fondness for all things culinary.

Admittedly, it was a thing she should have put foresight into...but to the amusement of her present self, that thought had only creeped into her mind far too late.

She reflects on how today, she was capable of preparing those very meals as if they were second nature- something she loved to do.

Perhaps that was the charm of her GadaDhara's contagious love. His excitement was nothing short of that or a child. It was warm, it was comforting.

He'd taught her that it was not just a matter of surviving, but rather; a way of bringing people together, a way of connecting with the world which helped in putting food in front of her- that it was not just sustenance. It was nourishment.

She could listen to him talk on and on for hours, telling her all about where that one specific herb used in the day's meal was so special, or how a tuber in the stew they had for dinner was so versatile.

That one of the things that was everlasting, in him.

That, and the smile he flashed at her, when she would come in after a long day of duties, holding in her palm a bowl of a sweet delight he took a liking to- the smile which made her feel young all over again.

------

जय सीतारामलक्ष्मण की!

Hope y'all liked today's piece! Having an absolute blast writing for this event yssjus

Stay safe, healthy, and hydrated <3

Have a good one, folks!

[misscalming]

[sambhavami]

Saugandhika Pushpam

Saugandhika Pushpam

-Dr. Pappu Venugopala Rao

This is an exquisite composition in a Ragamalika, exploring Bheema's journey to bring beautiful flowers that Draupadi asks for.

It covers the MB episode only at a surface level, and yet the poet has used some meager words to create such a lilting scene all around us, such that I still often catch myself repeating the same words just to relish their beauty again and again!

Please forgive if you see an error in translation. <3

Himagiri saundarya hela vilaasam |

Bheema Draupadi bhavya-sringara vaasam ||

Before the beauty of the snow-clad mountains, they played.

Bheema and Draupadi played the regal game of sringara.

Vanaparva paryatana Manasija-anandam |

Vanaja-patr-ekshana vanchha-aravindam ||

In Vana Parva, while they wandered, the one born from the mind [of Vishnu, Kama] was pleased.

The one with eyes like a petal of the forest-lotus [Draupadi] expressed her desire for the divine lotus [flower].

Sumanogya sundaram saugandha-kusumam |

Anala-ja prarthayathi asamaana Bheem-am ||

Beautiful to a connoisseur of floriculture, the fragrant saugandhika-lotus, did the Fire-Born Lady [Draupadi] ask of the inimitable Bheema!

Gandhamadana gira-um langhati Vrikodara-ha |

Marga-avarodhena pashyati tam-sahodara-ha ||

While crossing the hill of Gandhamadana, the one with stomach tapered like that of a wolf [Bheema]

Came across his brother [Hanumana], who obstructed his path.

Pulaka-agra parirambha aashlishta bahu-hu |

Yuga-yugantara janita punya-metyahu-hu ||

Thus began a game of pulaka [prank], led by the one with arms strong as lightning [Hanumana],

Hearing of which shall bestow Yugas' worth of punya on the listener.

Dhana-pati parijana-parivritam nandanam |

Tatra pashyati Bheem-o adi-Gandhamaadanam ||

The Nandana-garden of the god of wealth [Kubera], surrounded by Kubera’s acquaintances [guards/yakshas]-

There entered Bheema, which [hill on which garden is present] is on Gandhamadana.

Saugandhikaa-kusuma pariplutya sanchayam |

Shata-patra-sundarim puraskritya vijayam ||

A number of saugandhika flowers did he [Bheema] gather, to the content of his heart,

And unto the lady as beautiful as a lotus with a thousand petals [Draupadi] he bestowed the credit for his victory (in bringing the flowers).

OR

And the lady as beautiful as a lotus with a thousand petals [Draupadi] felicitated his victory.

Here's a link where this composition has been beautifully presented through Bharatanatyam by Sridevi Nrithyalaya [x].

[h0bg0blin-meat]

Duryodhan: Get on my level!

Bheem: Unfortunately, to "get on your level" I'd need a boat trip to the Mariana Trench and a pair of cinderblock shoes.

[blackknight-100]

MAHABHARAT THEATER!AU FIC

Chapter 7 is up!

Excerpt:

[Arjuna] catches up to Karna at the landing and together, they make their way down the hallway. The smoke is somehow worse this time around, and every step feels like the last. There’s no sniping – neither of them have the breath to spare, but they keep throwing dirty glances at each other. The fire, instead of dying down, has grown even bigger, and little flakes of ash and wood float about in the air.  Karna peers into one of the rooms on the left, and Arjuna hears him wince. The door has collapsed, and a bar of wood burns diagonally across, making it impossible to get inside. Arjuna pokes his head behind Karna’s shoulder, waits for his stinging eyes to adjust. Through the pall of smoke, he makes out a prone figure sprawled on the ground, clad in white.

[meerability]

Today I bring Bheema and Draupadi. Tommorow, who knows?

[friend-shaped-but]

[krishna-premi]

how i imagine draupadi's relationship was with her husbands

Draupadi Yudhishthir: They both would spend hours reading together. Draupadi was a curious soul and Yudhisthir was more than happy to suggest and talk about books with his beloved wife. They both would spend time next to each other in a comfortable, peaceful silence. They would sometimes meditate together too. Yudhisthir would leave books around her with small letters inside.

Draupadi Bheema: Draupadi quickly realised the easiest way to Bheema's heart was through cooking for him and that's what she did. Bheema would help her cook a lot. Bheema would often bring fruits and leave them around her as gifts. Bheema would always be around to protect her no matter what. I also believe Draupadi caressed his cheeks a lot idk why I think that but I do.

Draupadi Arjuna: We all know she was in love with him the most. She would sneak glances at him from time to time. Arjuna too looked at her when she wasn't looking. He would accompany her to the temple a lot and would put gajra in her hair. Because he was a shy soul he found it difficult to hold a conversation but you would always find them glancing when the other isn't looking and giving each small smiles across the room.

Draupadi Nakula: They both talked only sometimes, small conversations, little pranams when they saw each other. Nakula would sometimes trach her basic medicines and herbs too. One thing they did was take a stroll in the garden together. They would walk next to each other but still having distance in between and would admire the flowers around them. Nakula too would bring her gajras but he was too shy to pin them in her hair so he would just keep it next to her hoping she'd understand.

Draupadi Sahadev: Being the youngest among the five brothers, Sahadev got the most love by his brothers but also a lot of trying to be as good as them. He would joke around Draupadi a lot and they had a playful relationship with each other. Draupadi laughed most openly around Sahadev and he cherished these private moments of happiness with his wife. Draupadi would also help Sahadev to be more confident as he often felt that he lacked strength and skills as compared to his brothers.

This is my personal interpretation of their relationships. I feel like sometimes they would all hangout together and all five of them would being gifts for Draupadi. Idk this is so fulfilling to me.

[yumjum414]

Echo's of a life lived

What did my father call me when I was younger?

As Arjuna plunged into the abyss, he heard his brother Bhima's voice calling out to him, the last desperate cry for him to hold on. His other brother did not even spare him a glance. The son of Yama merely uttered the cold truth- his most fatal flaw- and continued on his path to enlightenment.

The jagged edges of the mountain tore through his skin, each impact sending shocks of pain through his weary frame. Yet pain was nothing new to Arjuna; it had been a companion in every chapter of his life. Now, at the end, it felt almost like a solace door waiting to open, leading him to where his Madhav stood with open arms.

The spinning world came to a stop. His back lay against the unforgiving earth, and his eyes, tired yet unseeing, beheld the pristine blue sky above. It reminded him of the ocean surrounding Dwaraka, of the waves Krishna had once commanded with laughter in his voice. The clouds hung still, like the frozen crests of those very waves.

Had I always been Arjuna?

No I think he had called me Krishnaa.

What was the name of the book that Sahadeva and I debated over a lifetime ago?

Among all his brothers, Sahadeva had been his quiet solace. Bhima and Nakula carried an energy that demanded attention, but Sahadeva was the stillness in the storm. The two of them, introspective in their ways, had navigated chaos with shared glances and unspoken words. Though, when the time came, they were the very sparks that ignited mischief.

Despite his calm demeanor, Sahadeva possessed a wit sharper than any blade. When Yudhishthira once sought his advice on moral dilemmas, he had responded, "Try not to gamble your kingdom next time." The entire hall had erupted into laughter- everyone except Yudhishthira.

His youngest brother, with unparalleled knowledge, is his gentle, kind Deva. He used to be the tiniest baby, with chubby hands always reaching toward his untamable curls. One smile from his youngest brother, soft and fleeting, like a timid ray of sunlight peeking through clouds, could melt Arjun's heart like utter softening under the sun's warmth. His brother carried the heavy burden of knowing the future

I hope we can still talk about your favorite poems and lament the foolishness of the world around us, just like we did when we were young- perhaps somewhere beyond this realm.

Nakul, have I ever told you that your laughter was enough to lighten the darkest of days?

Nakul, the charmer, the peacemaker, the one who never failed to make Arjuna smile even when grief held him captive. His younger brother was more than his renowned beauty; he possessed a rare kindness, an understanding of emotions as deep as Sahadeva's understanding of logic.

Perhaps it was why animals were drawn to him. The wildest of creatures-horses, birds, even stray dogs-flocked to his side as if they could sense his untamed heart, one free of malice. Bhima had once joked that Nakula could win wars simply by leading an army of beasts.

After Abhimanyu's death, Nakula approached Arjuna in the gentlest, most thoughtful way. He tended to small things, like polishing Abhimanyu's weapons or leaving food by Arjuna's side when he wouldn't eat. "I can't imagine your pain, Bhrata, but I do know this-Abhimanyu adored you. Every time he spoke of you, his eyes shone brighter than the sun. He would want you to keep fighting, to honor his memory. He'd never forgive me if I let you give up." Nakula's quiet, persistent care reminded Arjuna that he wasn't alone in his grief, even when words failed.

Thank you for always cheering me up. I hope you'll still be there to annoy me when it's my turn to join you.

Bhima's bear-like embrace- when was the last time I held him?

Bhima, his elder brother, his shield, his greatest rival and ally. They had turned everything into a competition: who could shoot faster, who could run farther, who could lift the heaviest weight. Bhima, who laughed the loudest, fought the fiercest, and loved the hardest.

Bhima, who always teased Arjuna when he won, saying, "Even the greatest archer can't outmatch my strength," and Arjuna would retort, "Strength is nothing without precision, brother."

On the battlefield, they had been an unstoppable force. Bhima would clear the path like a storm, and Arjuna would follow, striking with precision. Together, they had been a force of nature, their synergy unmatched. Yet Bhima, the mighty warrior, was also the one who cradled children in his arms, who told the wildest tales of war, exaggerating every detail just to hear the laughter of his loved ones. "The asura was as tall as three mountains!" I roll my eyes every time.

How could I have ever doubted the love in his heart? I would give anything for just one more embrace.

Jesth Bharata... I never meant those words I said that day.

When their father died, Yudhishthira wiped Bhima's tears, held Arjuna for hours as he wept, and consoled the twins as they witnessed their mother step into the fire. After that, he tended to the rishis, ensuring they were fed, and took on the immense burden of handling the funeral rites with a composure no child his age should have had to bear.

For years after, Yudhishthira was their father. The one who guided them, the one who worried over them, the one who bore the weight of duty so that his brothers would not have to. He smoothed their fears with his steady voice, his hands firm but kind upon their shoulders. Arjuna wondered- had Yudhishthira ever been a child himself? Had he ever been allowed to stumble, to make mistakes, to cry without the weight of responsibility forcing him to wipe his own tears before anyone could see?

Perhaps that was why fate had been so unkind to him, why Dharma itself tested him in ways none of them could comprehend. Because Yudhishthira had never been allowed to fail and learn from it-he was expected to be right, always. A flawless king, a righteous man, an unwavering guide. But Arjuna knew the truth. Knew that behind the wisdom, the patience, the seeming detachment, there was a man who had once been a boy- one who had carried too much for too long, whose heart had been burdened by expectations too heavy to bear.

And Arjuna, in all his righteousness, had failed to see it until it was too late.

Jesth Bharata, forgive me.

Abhimanyu, what did your smile look like, my son?

His dimpled face, radiant like the moon, the sparkle in his eyes that held boundless curiosity and mischief. He had smiled just like his mother- soft yet unwavering, with an innocence that belied the warrior's blood in his veins. His laughter had been the sweetest melody Arjuna had ever known, echoing through the halls of Indraprastha, in the courtyards where he trained, in the soft glow of evening when father and son sat side by side, speaking of battle, honor, and dreams of the future.

Arjuna remembered the first time Abhimanyu had held a bow. The boy had been so small, barely able to pull the string, but determined, nonetheless. "One day, I will be like you, Pitashree," he had said, his voice bright with conviction. Arjuna laughed, adjusting his son's grip, ruffling his curls. "You will be greater, my son," he had promised.

But fate had stolen him away too soon. His pride, his greatest joy, had been left broken, surrounded by enemies, trapped in a web of deceit and cruelty. And Arjuna-mighty, victorious Arjuna-had not been there to save him.

Would he be waiting for him, just beyond this life? Would he rush toward him, grinning as he always did, bow in hand, eager to show his father how much stronger he had become?

Or would he look at him with quiet reproach, asking the question Arjuna had asked himself every day since that cursed battle- Why weren't you there?

Subhadra, did I ever tell you that your smile reminds me of our son?

His wife, his fire, his fiercest the princess who had taken the reins of her fate as easily as she had taken the reins of his chariot that fateful day. She had not waited to be rescued, nor had she hesitated when he held out his hand. She had laughed, eyes alight with mischief, wind whipping through her hair as they rode away, her knowing smile promising that this was only the beginning of their story.

He could still see her as she had been that day, unafraid, radiant, free. And when Abhimanyu was born, Arjuna saw her again in their son- in the crinkle of his eyes when he laughed, in the tilt of his head when he listened, in the sheer, unstoppable will that burned within him. He had her fire, her stubbornness, her boundless warmth.

But had he told her enough? Had he ever whispered to her in the quiet of the night how much she meant to him? That beyond war and duty, beyond victories and losses, it was she who had given him his greatest happiness?

Did I tell you enough, Priye? That I loved you since the moment I first saw you? That I loved you even more in every moment after?

Panchali, my fire, my queen- how could I ever have deserved your love?

From the moment she placed the garland around his neck, he had been hers. Not just by fate, not just by duty, but by the quiet pull of something deeper, something undeniable. She had chosen him, and yet, had he ever truly been worthy of her?

His most beautiful, fiercest, wisest wife. The one who had stood unbroken through every storm, who had faced humiliation and war with her chin held high, who had been the strength none of them had deserved, the strongest amongst them all. She had loved him despite his absences, despite the distances between them, despite the battles that had taken him far from her. She had been his fire, his fiercest advocate, his harshest truth. And yet, how many times had he let her down?

He had won her hand, but had he ever truly won her heart? Had he ever given her all that she had given him? Did she know, in the quiet moments, when duty did not weigh upon them, that he saw her? Not just as a queen, not just as the mother of his children, but as his Draupadi-the woman who had laughed at his arrogance, who had met his gaze without fear, who had walked beside him, always beside him, even when the world had turned against her.

Draupadi, tell me my love-how can I ever be worthy of you?

Uttara, my child, my daughter in all but blood.

Did I ever tell you that you were the daughter I always wanted to have and so much more?

He had watched her grow from a bright-eyed girl who once looked up to him with admiration, calling him Guru, to a woman who bore the weight of tragedy with a quiet, unyielding strength. The day Abhimanyu fell, she had not wept before others. She had carried his child within her, and for his sake, for the son who would never meet his father, she had stood unbroken, even when the world around her crumbled.

You were barely more than a child when the war stole everything from you. I watched you stand in the ashes of a shattered world, carrying life within you while drowning in grief. And yet, you endured.

I should have protected you, should have spared you from this pain. But you, my brave girl, bore it with a quiet strength that humbled even warriors.

You were always meant for joy, not sorrow. If only the gods had been kinder.

Did I ever tell you how proud I was of you?

My sons-brave, noble, gone too soon.

The best of us lived in you. Prativindhya carried your mother's fire, Sutasoma had Bhima's fierce heart, Shrutakarma bore my own stubborn will, Satanika was Nakula's sharp mind, and Shrutasena was Sahadeva's quiet wisdom.

You were not just our children- you were the promise of a future we would never see. You fought like lions, defended your home like true Kshatriyas. And yet, you were slain in your sleep, denied even the honor of a warrior's death.

How cruel fate is, to take our brightest stars before dawn.

Pitamah... Did you ever forgive me?

The man who had once held him as a child, who had taught him to wield a bow before he could even walk properly, now lay upon a bed of arrows- his own arrows.

Arjuna still remembered the firm grip of his Pitamah's hands as they corrected his stance, the deep voice that guided him through his first lessons, and the rare smile that softened his otherwise unyielding features when his young grandson struck his mark. Bhishma had been a fortress, an unshakable pillar of Hastinapura-until the day he fell by Arjuna's hand.

Arjuna had always known this battle would come. But he had never imagined what it would feel like.

He had fired those arrows with trembling fingers, his heart screaming even as his duty commanded him forward. Each shot had been precise, each strike had been devastating. But no matter how sharp his aim was, nothing could dull the pain in his chest.

"Pitamah," he had whispered, kneeling by the bed of arrows. "I-"

Bhishma had only smiled, weary yet serene. "You did well, my son," he had said, as if none of it- none of the war, the pain, the broken family- mattered anymore. But Arjuna could not take solace in those words. He wanted to believe them, wanted to believe that Bhishma had truly meant them. But how could he, when the sight of his grandfather, his teacher, his elder-pierced and broken by his own hands, haunted him even now?

Did you ever forgive me, Pitamah? Even if you did, I do not know if I can ever forgive myself.

Acharya, Did I ever make you proud?

From the moment I first held a bow, it was your voice that guided my hands. Your lessons shaped me, your praise lifted me, and your approval became my greatest pursuit. More than a teacher, more than a master of warfare, you were like a father to me.

I gave you my everything. I trained until my fingers bled, until my arms ached from drawing the bowstring a thousand times over. I surpassed every challenge, met every expectation, and honed my craft with a devotion unmatched by any of your disciples. And in return, you called me your greatest student. You assured me that I was the best, that no one- not even your own son- could rival me.

But tell me, Acharya, did you ever truly mean it?

Was I your pride, or merely your sharpest blade? A weapon you forged with care, but never love?

I told myself it didn't matter. That your approval, your teachings, your guidance were enough. That your distance, your unwavering gaze fixed on your son, did not bother me. But on the battlefield, when I stood before you as an enemy, I saw the truth.

You looked at me not as a son, not even as a beloved student, but as a mere warrior standing in your way. And yet, when you fell, when you closed your eyes for the last time, I could not help but wonder-did some part of you, even for a fleeting moment, think of me as yours?

Acharya, you were a father to me. But was I ever a son to you?

Mata... did I ever tell you how much I missed you?

Kunti, the mother who shaped them all, the woman whose love was as fierce as the storms she endured. She was the first person to ever hold him, to ever whisper his name with pride, to ever soothe his childhood fears. He remembered the way her hands, calloused yet gentle, ran through his curls as she sang lullabies that carried the weight of ages.

He used to watch her in awe as a child-how she carried herself, how she stood tall even when fate stripped everything away from her. She never wept where they could see, never faltered where they could hear. Her strength was like the unyielding earth beneath his feet-always there, always holding them up, even when it cracked under its burdens.

And yet, he wondered... did she ever long for a moment of softness? A moment where she wasn't a queen, wasn't a mother, wasn't duty-bound-just Kunti?

She had raised them with fierce love but also with lessons that often tasted bitter. Her decisions had shaped their fates, made them stronger, but also left wounds too deep to ever truly heal. There had been times he resented her, times he wished she had chosen differently, times he wished she had been gentler with them. But as he grew older, as he carried his own burdens, he understood. She had done what she thought was right-what she had to do.

And then there was Karna.

Arjuna's breath caught in his chest at the mere thought of him. The shadow of a brother he never got to know, the warrior who should have been by his side but instead stood against him. The man he had hated, fought, and finally killed-only to learn the truth when it was far too late.

For years, anger had burned in his heart like an unrelenting fire. But now, as he lay upon the cold rocks, it was not anger that remained- only sorrow. Had Karna ever wondered, even for a second, what it would have been like to stand with them, to be one of them?

Would things have been different if Kunti had spoken the truth earlier? Would it have changed anything at all, or was fate too cruel, too unyielding to ever let them be brothers in this life?

The last time he saw Kunti, she had been walking away. Choosing exile, choosing to leave them behind along with Dhritarashtra and Gandhari. He hadn't understood it then, had barely spoken a word when she made her choice. But now, as he lay battered and broken upon the mountains, he understood. She had given everything for them- her youth, her happiness, her very being. And in the end, she had simply wanted rest.

Mata, did you ever find peace? Did you ever forgive yourself?

Because I forgave you a long time ago.

Madhav-was I ever truly Arjuna before meeting you?

You were my charioteer, my guide, my anchor when the world threatened to sweep me away. You were my laughter in moments of quiet, my wisdom in moments of doubt, my Sakha in every joy and sorrow. Without you, was I ever truly Arjuna, or was I just a shadow of the man you once steadied?

Do you remember, Madhav? The nights in Dwarka when we raced our chariots under the moonlight, laughing like reckless children? When we sat by the ocean, watching the waves kiss the shore, speaking of things too great for even kings and warriors to understand? When you stole my crown mid-battle, just to scold me for my pride, and I could only shake my head because, as always, you were right?

Do you remember, Madhav, that morning in Vrindavan, before the weight of kingdoms and war lay upon our shoulders? When I woke to the sound of your flute, its melody weaving through the golden light of dawn, and found you perched beneath a tree, eyes closed, utterly at peace? I had never envied anyone more than I did in that moment. You belonged to the world, yet you were entirely your own.

I had asked you, "Do you ever tire of always knowing more than the rest of us?"

And you had only smiled. "Do you ever tire of always striving to be more than yourself?"

I had scoffed, pretending to take offense, but we both knew the truth. You understood me better than I ever did myself.

Do you remember the battlefield, Madhav? When my hands trembled, my heart wavered, and you caught my wrist, steady as the earth itself? "I am here, Parth," you had said. And that was all I needed to fight.

And when you left- oh, Madhav, how did you expect me to stay? How was I to go on in a world where your laughter no longer rang in my ears, where your words did not pull me back from the abyss?

I have walked through fire, wielded my Gandiva against gods and men, lost my son, my kin, my very soul- but nothing, nothing, has ever undone me as much as your absence.

Will you be waiting for me at the end?

His breathing slowed and he felt his strength all but vanish out of his once invincible body. 

But Arjuna had died long before his body ever fell.

He had died the day he placed his grandsire on a bed of arrows. He had died the moment he first saw his son's lifeless body.

And truly, he had stopped living the day his Madhav left him.

What was left for him in a world where Krishna did not walk?

Somewhere along the years, through war and bloodshed, he had always known- he would not die on the battlefield. Despite his name being synonymous with it, despite his life being defined by it, war had never been his final fate. His end was meant to be something quieter, something lonelier.

As he fell, the jagged rocks tearing through flesh and bone, his life did not flash before his eyes in a blur of bloodstained memories. No, instead, he saw the moments that had made life worth living.

The first time he held a bow, the wood smooth beneath his hands, his heart hammering with certainty: this was his calling. Pitamah's hand rested on his shoulder, firm yet gentle. "Steady, Arjuna. A warrior's hands must never tremble." And in that moment, with Bhishma's unwavering faith in him, he had never felt stronger.

"You remind me why I became a teacher, Arjuna," Guru Drona had said, resting a hand on his head, after the first time he struck the eye of a moving target. Just those words, simple and rare, had meant more to him than any title or prize.

The way Subhadra had laughed when she took the reins, wind whipping through her hair as they rode into the night.

The way Draupadi had looked at him that day in Kampilya- steady, knowing, fierce- as if she had chosen him long before she ever placed the garland around his neck.

The gleam of mischief in Nakul's eyes before a prank, the quiet steadiness in Sahadev's when he spoke truths no one else dared to say.

The warmth of Bhima's crushing embrace, the rare gentleness in Yudhishthira's touch when he wiped away his brothers' tears before shedding his own.

Abhimanyu, grinning, dimpled, bright as the sun itself, his little hands trying to pull the string of a bow far too large for him.

And then, there was Madhav.

Laughing beside him in Dwarka as they raced their chariots under the moonlight. Sitting by the ocean, speaking of things too vast even for warriors to comprehend. Catching his wrist in the midst of war, steadying him with nothing but the weight of his presence. His god. His very soul. 

He had been so tired for so long. 

His eyes fluttered open one last time. As the world around him blurred into light, a familiar voice, warm and teasing, cut through the silence.

"You just couldn't wait to see me again, Parth."

[hum-suffer]

Brothers

It's a thing everyone knows. Nakul is the most beautiful man in all of Aryavart. His eyes are bright and he is almost always smiling and it feels as if one is looking at the Sun, if Nakul turns his attention towards them.

He is benevolent. He loves his evening walks, he greets all of the members of their household and even the temporary service providers. He knows almost all the servants personally and knows about their families. He knows all about the horses in the Royal stable and personally takes care of Bheem's horse, who had been a weakling when it was young but Bheem and Nakul had rescued the poor thing and Bheem looked if he would cry without the horse and Nakul had nursed him back to health and still takes special care of the majestic horse.

Nakul knows the habitat of their state like the back of his hand. From the capital to the deepest forests and the snarling rivers, he knows nature and he wields it like a limb. He conquered the West with guerrilla tactics that he claims were just "common sense". He writes a book, and gives it to Arjun when he leaves for his vanvaas— he knows his elder brother and he knows nature and he wants nature to work in his brother's favour.

He brings flowers for his wives everyday— sometimes if Draupadi feels petty, she taunts her other husbands for Nakul's gallantry and chivalry. Karenumati puts the flowers in her hair everyday and at evening, the same flowers go into the warm bath prepared for Nakul and when he climbs into their bed, he knows he smells like the flowers he gave her earlier. It makes her hold him a little closer.

He goes on runs and plays with the children, Abhimanyu especially loves him. The infant cannot play with his elder brother and cousins but Nakul holds him in his arms and throws him in the air and Shatanik whines that he misses being that small and Nakul takes it as a challenge and then he spends hours with the boys, throwing them up in the air and catching them, listening to them laugh for hours and hours.

When Nakul goes to Yudhishthir, Yudhishthir pretends to be put out because Nakul always drags him away from the work of the Emperor and takes him for horse riding, claiming that the ride around the city would help him get a more practical idea of the administration. Both of them know that Yudhishthir knows all of his state like the back of his hand and the ride around the city is just an excuse for him to leave the rooms and be free for a while.

Sahadev is the one that sees the whole of Nakul in a different light. Everyone sees the beauty, the friendliness, the grace and the happiness. As if he were the sun, basking them all in his warmth. But Sahadev knows that the warmth of the sun burns and burns and burns until there is nothing left.

Sahadev is the only one who has seen Nakul kill, without a thought of justice. He is the only one who has seen Nakul hold him so close that there were bruises on Sahadev's arms later. A man had tried to assassinate Sahadev, once. Nakul had been the one to capture him and when he brought the assassin back to the Royal court for justice, the man was barely alive. His arms and legs were twisted in unnatural ways and his nose looked broken and his eyes were swollen and—

Yudhishthir had looked disappointed in Nakul but had ordered the assassin to be hanged till death in a week's time.

The very next day, there were reports that the assassin escaped. This time, his dead body was found deep in the bowels of the forest at the edge of the city.

Sahadev, known for his expertise in medicine, was called to identify the cause of death. "Internal bleeding," he said, and pointed out some other deep gashes. He breathed in, and with that, locked away the real reason of the death— a poisonous flower that Sahadev knew all about.

Nakul smelled of that flower.

When they were walking to their sword practice, Nakul pulled Sahadev in a half hug and kissed his temple. "My baby brother, do you think you can race me to the arena?"

"Race you and best you, too!" He said, pulling away to start to run but he stumbled and barely caught himself on the wall whilst Nakul took off, laughing. Sahadev looked down to see the beam of the construction, Nakul had deliberately let him go at the place to make him stumble and give himself a head start.

"I'm telling Jyesth that you're a cheat, Bhratashree!" Sahadev yelled and started running.

Nakul laughed some more, avoiding the stairs and jumping down the floor. "Stop being a crybaby!"

They ended up on the ground of the arena where all the brothers and wives were waiting for them, as Sahadev tackled Nakul and they rolled around in the ground, still arguing about who won.

Sahadev heard Bheem laugh,"You two should have been conjoined twins, you insufferable children."

Yudhishthir elbowed him with a grin,"Hush, now. I think they're trying to do just that."

"They're already joined at the hip," Arjun said,"The gods just wanted to provide us some respite so that they may separate. Shoo, now, get up and see what example you're setting in front of your children!"

Nakul and Sahadev looked at each other for a beat. Nakul squeezed Sahadev's hand and Sahadev smiled at him.

They looked at their brothers and stuck out their tongues.

[shadowqueenjude]

“Eight years ago, he amassed our wealth on three ships to sail to Bharat for invaluable spices and cloth.” The naga were sprung from a nightmare. Covered in dark scales and nothing more, they were a horrendous combination of serpentine features and male humanoid bodies whose powerful arms ended in polished black, flesh-shredding talons.

People like pointing out stuff by SJM which was inspired by other stories so here's mine: Bharat is another name for India, and India is the king of spices and cloth, so that's obviously the inspiration here. Two, the naga are inspired by creatures in Hindu-lore. In the story of the Mahabharata, the Naga are snake people who live beneath the human world. One of the main characters in that story, Bheema, encounters the Naga who nearly kill him but then end up gifting him with the strength of thousands of elephants (long story). Clearly not original either, Sarah.