#yudhishthir?

[incorrectmahabharatquotes]

IMQ Server Starbharat Samuhik Watch Party Memes #25

Credit to me.

-Mod S

[zeherili-ankhein]

I am fucking wheezing 😭

Credit: @ekdum.wholesome on Instagram

[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

[sambhavami]

Hi,

I have been following your posts recently and loved the insights you offer.

Would really like to know your comments on these follow incidents

What was the relationship scenario btw Kuru and Panchala rivalry during the time of Drupad, there was Shikhandi aspiring to kill Bhishma, also parallely Drupad and Pandu were friends?

There is an interpretation of Ekalavya thumb incident, such that Dron did what he did because bitter relationship btw Kuru and magadh and nishada were there vasal, Mostly princes who belonged to kingdom that were in good ties with kuru studied in drona institute, but later we find Dury and co fighting with magadh and against Yadava, why do you think Pandavas didn't oppose that, as krishna sent akrur to support yudhishthir claim for throne, couldn't Pandavas not avoid kuru from aligning with Jarasandha as Yudhi was crown prince before varanvat

What's your opinion on krishna and Arjuna friendship, how did it start? What made Krishna like him ?

What do you think about Arjun accusation of being greedy when he made the half lie, although Krishna's intention behind the strategy was elimination of Drona was because of who ruthless the latter was turning into. What do you think about the psychology of Krishna, Yudhishthir, Arjun, Satyaki and Dhristadyumna towards this incident?

Did balaram being cousin to both Pandavas and Kauravas (Rohini) and Krishna being to only Pandavas affected their aligning

Thank you so much for the nice words and the lovely questions! <3

Kuru-Panchala were not fighting at that precise moment, when Drupada was king, primarily because everyone knew going up against Bheeshma was a bad idea. However, the enmity was still there, where Drupada kept Shikhandi [even after a 'divine' announcement that he'd kill Bheeshma] for the same reason that Bheeshma employed Drona [among other reasons]. A what-you-gonna-do-about-it, a kind of a non-violent escalation (especially after the Amba debacle where both parties considered themselves unfairly insulted). Also, I wouldn't call Drupada and Pandu friends, maybe they were civil in international settings, but they never would have set foot in each other's kingdom lest they set off a war. Also Pandu's death probably worsened their inter-kingdom situation, since neither Bheeshma nor Hotravahana (through Drupada) were ready to move on.

Actually, Kuru-Magadh relationships were downright cordial. Given Bheeshma and Jarasandha were, distant but still, cousins, they had an agreement: Magadh (Bihar-Chhattisgarh) will keep up the pressure on Panchala (Uttar Pradesh) alongside the Kurus (bits and pieces from Haryana to Bihar), and in return, Bheeshma will not get involved in any other expansionary efforts on King J's part (they even had agreed upon vassal turfs: this you can invade, this you can’t sort of). Personally, I think this is the reason why Bheeshma didn't intervene in Mathura etc. The Nishadas were not a single kingdom, but rather pockets of independent land that was not successfully colonized by the aryans. These communities then fought/allied with different kingdoms, as per their convenience. At this point, yes, Hiranyavarma and Ekalavya's tribe was allied with Jarasandha. In Drona's school, people from many places came, from Mathura, Anga, Magadh, and even Panchala. Neither Drona not Bheeshma had any issue with that. Hence, we can see that Ekalavya's case is purely one of caste-based discrimination since the hierarchy was that of {Devas > Brahmana > Kshatriya > Vaishya > Shoodra > Women of these castes > Nishadas (independent non-aryans) > Chandalas (hunters/butchers/cremation workers) Rakshasas (other tribes: mix of aryan/non-aryan) > Mlechhas (non-deva foreigners)}. We should remember that Drona was often accused of being a kshatropeta dvija (a brahmin pretending to be a kshatriya) due to his affinity for war and weaponry. Hence, he took special care to double down farther on other areas of caste-rigidity (maybe even to prove to himself that he is a true brahmin and therefore worthy of that respect). Drona refused Ekalavya because of this. What Drona did to his thumb was a different case. Many people blame Arjuna too, but I would differ on the grounds that Arjuna was still a child, and Drona, as the adult, had a greater responsibility which he grossly neglected. All Arjuna wanted was to learn the tricks (maybe from Ekalavya, with Drona’s approval), but his point came out wrong, and more accusatory than he had hoped. Also, seeing Ekalavya’s superior skill and fearing Bheeshma’s disappointment in him, Drona handicaps him. Even then, even four-fingered, Ekalavya became literally the stuff of Krishna’s nightmares (by his own admission too)! Since Jarasandha didn’t respect Krishna as an equal (since he was raised a cowherd), he earmarked Ekalavya-the-nishada, to finish off Krishna-the-aahira-gopa. On King J’s instruction, Ekalavya chased Krishna around the entire subcontinent, until finally Balarama was able to kill/chase him off to the Maldives. Even on the even of Kurukshetra, we see Krishna heave a sigh of relief because Ekalavya’s not there on the other side to exact his revenge on Arjuna. (b) When Duryodhana fights alongside Jarasandha, along with (in his generation) Karna, Shishupala, Dantavakra, Shalva, Jayadratha and Rukmi, he takes only a smaller portion of the army that is specifically allotted to him and his brothers. We see a similar arrangement in Dwarika, where none of Satyaki, Krishna or Kritavarma have to seek permission from their parliament before embarking on the war of Kurukshetra in any capacity, specifically because they only took ‘their’ portions of the army. It’s this same reason that the Pandavas have no say in what battles the Dhaartarashtras fight (so long as they’re not involving the entire army). Basically, the Pandavas (except Yudhishthira) all had their own ‘start-up’ conquests, while the Kauravas were basically all doing battle internships under the guidance of Jarasandha, Paundraka, Naraka, Shalva, Srigala etc. Also, Krishna didn’t send Akroora to support the Pandavas just then. Akroora was instructed only to reestablish a thread of communication with Kunti and her sons (on a personal capacity), and gather as much information about their situation as possible. Krishna didn’t lend his explicit support until Draupadi’s swayamvara, and Yadavas as a whole remained neutral throughout.

On Krishna and Arjuna’s friendship I’ve written in length before, so I am not going into it in much detail here. You can find most of those posts here: (x). The start of Krishna’s interest in Arjuna (and his brothers) starts one night when a semi-drunk Vasudeva calls Krishna and Balarama to his room and sobs into their arms about how much of a failure of a brother he was- given he could do nothing for Kunti when she was sent away by their father (she was 11, he was 7, no one but Vasudeva blames Vasudeva), or that he couldn’t provide shelter for her kids when her husband died and they were mistreated by Dhritarashtra (he was literally being held captive, again, no one blames him but him). Krishna is deeply moved by this confession of his father, and promises that he will be there for the Pandavas hereafter, no matter what (that he will “subjugate the world and put it at his auntie Pritha’s feet”). Very soon after this only, he sends off Akroora on priority and deploys an elaborate network of spies to start tracking them (this, and his subsequent close ties with Vidura and Vyasa, is how he already knows that they didn’t die in Varanavat and that Vyasa is herding them off to Panchala to get married). What attracted Krishna to Arjuna specifically, is a mixture of things: (a) Arjuna looks exactly like him, (b) he is also an introvert (believe it or not, Krishna is too, at least with people he doesn’t really know very well, and actually Arjuna is so quiet that he makes Krishna look like an extrovert), (c) they both (and the other brothers too) grew up with a relatively simple lifestyle, as opposed to either of their cousins, (d) they were both passionate archers, (e) Arjuna’s only sixish-months younger than him (and yet Krishna makes him touch his feet at every opportunity he gets), and they can relate to each other very well, and lastly (f) Arjuna is near-equally intelligent, and he really gets Krishna, and can follow his logic two/three/four jumps later as well, no matter what topic they might be talking about (his suitability for listening to and understanding Geeta in about 1.5/2-ish hours, basically as soon as Krishna says the words out loud).

Drona’s elimination was a matter of strategy, yes. Arjuna’s case is that for him, in the absence of his father (and the discouragement from Bheeshma), his entire father-worthy love had become concentrated on his flawed guru. He latches on to Drona in the same way as Yudhishthira does to Dhritarashtra. He had already forgiven all indiscretions, partiality, intentional sabotage- every such act that Drona had committed against him, and Arjuna still loved him like a father. It is therefore no surprise that he had also forgiven Drona for supporting the Kauravas and fighting tooth-and-nail on their behalf. The true reason why Arjuna couldn’t defeat Drona conclusively was not because Drona was better than him, but rather because from that very first moment, when Drona had pulled out their ball and his ring from a well with a trick of archery, before a 10/11 years old Arjuna, he pretty much worshipped the ground that Drona walked on- believing him to be, in the fatherly sense too, an infallible and  immovable rock. Hence, when Krishna suggests his trick, Arjuna, knowing Drona and Yudhishthira both, knew this would work. Krishna, in fact has to threaten to drive back (since it was nearabout a split-second decision on the battlefield) and leave him tied up in the tents if he didn’t get with the plan (Arjuna threatened that when Yudhishthira lied, he would just scream over his brother and broadcast the plan). Krishna has to simultaneously convince both Yudhishthira and Arjuna of the suitability (as you mentioned, the rapidly rising casualty figure) of this lie. Bheema, Dhrishtadyumna and Satyaki are in favour, but they all still sort of afraid of Arjuna, because they know when it comes to Drona, Arjuna is not playing around. Finally, they lie and Drona basically k*lls himself, Dhrishtadyumna then severs his head (basically he desecrated his corpse, more out of a mechanical fulfilment of his proclaimed destiny than out of revenge for his father), and it is now that Arjuna actually loses it, and he lunges for Dhrishtadyumna. Arjuna would have legit murdered the guy with his bare hands right then if Bheema and Krishna hadn’t gotten in the middle (imagine, it took two of them to restrain Arjuna at that moment)! Later, at night, Ashwatthama says, frustrated with the Kauravas’ and Karna’s comabative and excusatory attitude, “No one but Arjuna is truly experiencing what I am, tonight.” And really, Arjuna, when he returns to the tent, he refuses to speak to even Krishna, or anyone else. I think he never even looks at Dhrishtadyumna again, as in his mind, somehow, Pandu and Drona having gotten mushed together, it's almost as if Dhrishtadyumna has murdered Pandu himself anew. Ashwatthama wants to go and grieve with Arjuna (maybe it would have averted all the mess later), but his attitude is more along the lines of, “How can I show him my face after the side that I’ve taken.” And this unfortunately gives Kauravas plenty of time to shift the narrative in his head wherein by the next couple of days, he fully believes that the Pandavas and Panchalas are the only ones to be blamed for his father’s death and not his lifelong Kaurava-association and their collective silence in the dyuta-sabha. For Yudhishthira, we know that story (most probably metaphorical), of how his chariot touches the ground post this lie. However, it was, in my opinion, not because of the lie, because even according to Yudhishthira’s own definition of dharma, it was the right thing to do, in order to save his sharanagata (under his refuge) soldiers’ lives. I believe, the chariot thing is in fact a manifestation of his own guilt, bubbling out of the love and respect that Yudhishthira has for his guru too (though nowhere near Arjuna’s level).

Yes, the two-way relationship (twice over, that too), is what kept Balarama neutral. Since Rohini is from the original 'biological' Kaurava lineage, Balarama doesn't think it approprieate for them to get involved in any havoc that the adopted ones wreak in Hastinapura.

[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.

[lovelyllamasblog]

"In his dream"

OG Artist: @/siraco (Danbooru) (Twitter)

[ishaaron-ishaaron-me]

Moral of the story: Don’t be transphobic and respect pronouns

[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?

[ocelhiracowboy]

some mahabharata character design. its mostly based on wayang but i also took inspo from the mahabharat (2013) series and fgo........

[aru-loves-krishnaxarjuna]

Arjuni: that was so fun!

Draupadi: I know right!?

Krishna: we should do it again, Parthavi!

Arjuni: heck yeah!

Yudhishthir: . . .

Yudhishthir: you guys exploded the Kaurava part of the palace WHAT DO YOU MEAN AGAIN!?!?

[proudhinduforever]

YAKSHA PRASHNA

The Yaksha Prashna is a profound dialogue from the Hindu epic Mahabharata. In this episode, Yudhishthira answers a series of questions posed by a Yaksha, who is a celestial being. These questions cover various topics, including morality, philosophy, duty, and spirituality.

Below is the link to Yaksha prashnas. These were answered by Yudhishthira.

One question remains favorite for me.

What is the greatest wonder?

Yudhishthira: Day after day, countless creatures die, yet the living desire to live forever. This is the greatest wonder.

Truly.. It is a fascinating answer. We see the impermanence in this world, but still we cling to lot of things.

[incorrectmahabharatquotes]

IMQ Server Starbharat Samuhik Watch Party Memes #22

Credit to the dazzling @sharngapani.

-Mod S

[h0bg0blin-meat]

Duryodhan: Hey, you want a tarot reading?

Yudhishthir: Those are Pokemon cards.

Duryodhan: You got a magikarp.

Yudhishthir: ...

Duryodhan: It means 'fuck you'.

[friend-shaped-but]

[saarejahasejudaasamerayaarhai]

Yudhishthir : *does not even look back as his siblings and wife fall to death*

Also Yudhishthir : *refuses heaven because they didn't let his dog in*

---------------------------------

The gods : *reviling themselves informing him that he passed their test*

Yudhishthir(who just wanted a dog) : W H A T

[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. The blues reminded him of the ocean surrounding Dwaraka, and the clouds reminded him 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, Of course.

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?

Arjun's 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.

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

Because 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.

In the mountains, where he breathe his first, and now will breathe his last.

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."