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Draupadi - Blog Posts
Manifesting Sriya Reddy as Draupadi in the upcoming Palace of Illusions movie. This goddess got both the acting chops and the looks, Suzhal bears testament. Divine powers, please let it happen. Please
Mythology Fic Challenge: H for Honor, Sita & Draupadi
For anon!
Draupadi learns quickly to be exasperated with the example set by Janaka’s daughter. “She suffered so,” exclaim the other women of the court, “and remained silent through it all! That is why,” they tell Draupadi, newly emerged from fire and a stranger to human mores, “she became a goddess, remembered to this day.”
Draupadi has no use for goddesses, not when the crackle of fire is so close to her soul, and Krishna a friend she can know and see and feel. She has just as little patience for silence, too, no matter how potent a weapon it might be: hers will always be the shout instead.
But Krishna always shakes his head at her when she complains. “You are not so very different, you know,” he tells her mildly. “I am sure she does not deserve your scorn.”
“Maybe not,” Draupadi admits, “but not my respect, either.”
That is before Draupadi is won, and wed, and wagered away: that is before the first shock of finding herself so poorly valued by those she had loved and trusted. That is before she closes her eyes and dreams, the bruises of Dushanana’s fingers still livid on her shoulders, and sees a golden-skinned woman before her.
The woman raises a hand, holds it to Draupadi’s cheek. Her fingernails are caked with dirt.
“My poor daughter,” she breathes. “Learn this from me: your honor is in your own hands, and no other’s. No one can take it from you, not by touch or word or deed. Fight for it, with all your strength; rage against the powerful, who would render you so helpless.”
Mother, Draupadi thinks, with a desperation she has never known. Sister. Anyone who might understand me.
“The world has forgotten this of me,” says Sita sadly. “Not you, as well.”
Alphabet Fic Challenge: Y for Yellow, Draupadi
Prompted by me! Because if there’s something to celebrate being done with this project, it’s commemorating Team Krishna(a)!
Yellow means many things to Draupadi.
It is the smear of turmeric that always settles upon her silks when she cooks, no matter how careful she means to be. It is the soft splendor of sunlight, its warmth magnified by the windows of this grand palace Mayasura has built for them. It is the golden gleaming coats of her husbands’ horses; it is the fluttering banner of the karnikara tree that her darling Abhimanyu has chosen for himself.
But best and most beloved of all, it is always a sign of the approach of her dearest and most dependable friend.
@hindumythologyevent day 4 - Male characters / sources
Sometimes she wondered if the others could see it too.
The way he moved, with something more than just a warrior’s confidence and strength, more than just a prince’s grace and charm.
The way he smiled, the smile of a man who had seen everything there was to be seen, almost like he was watching the world unfold around him like a retelling of a beloved play.
The way he drew people towards him, commanded not just the respect but the love and adoration of those around him, almost effortlessly.
The way people turned to him for advice, approval, comfort, even in anger - how they always looked to him first.
The way his arrival would silence a room, make people hold their breath, make them gawk, not in fear or shock, but in admiration. He was beautiful, yes, but it was something more.
Were it anyone else, she might have thought him insincere, a man who put on an act, who rarely revealed his true colors, she might have even been envious - he cannot be this immaculate, not truly. But with him, there was no question of it.
She’d seen his mischief, his laughter, his practicality, his morality; his bluntness, almost outright rudeness towards those who didn’t deserve his respect, and his utter devotion and earnestness to those who did.
She’d seen him brighten her husband Arjun’s day with just a smile, lessen her own sadness with just a hand on her arm, calm even his hot tempered long suffering brother Balram’s anger with only a look.
She hadn’t often seen him rise to anger, despite the many situations that warranted it. She knew, of course, that his offenders were far beneath him, undeserving of not just his anger but his mere presence, but it made him all the more fascinating, the way their words had seemingly no effect on him save for amusement, how he so rarely acted in haste, or fell prey to his temper, yet how easy it was for him to smile, to laugh, to sing.
She’d heard the insults they threw at him - that he was only a cowherd, only a milkmaid’s son, no one to be respected, as if those were titles to be ashamed of.
She’d heard of eyes twinkling like stars before, but the stars she saw in his eyes felt real - too real.
She’d heard tales, from Subhadra, of his enchanting prowess with the flute. How his music would make the gopis dance, how everyone would flock to hear it, beg him to play it for them, how even the cows in vrindavan would come to him when they heard it. No , she’d wanted to say, it wasn’t the music, it wasn’t just the music, it was him.
She’d heard of the events that followed in his wake- of Pootna, of Mount Govardhan, of Kansa; she was no stranger to divine intervention, being born from fire herself, but it did not seem to her as if he had obtained boons from various gods, or as if he was under the protection of one, and that was what had led to the stories that followed him. Who was he, really? What was he?.
But for all her musings, he seemed almost inexplicably human, inexplicably mortal. She saw in him the sky, the stars, the heavens, but she also saw the dust from behind the wheels of his chariot, the blood his divine weapon left on his fingers, the love with which he held his wives’ hands, the tenderness with which he held her first son in his arms.
Krishna, Vasudev, Govinda , Giridhari, Keshav, Son of Devaki, Son of Yashoda, Son of Nanda, Her true friend, confidant, her partner in crime, the perfect match to her wit, and somehow, something more. More than anything she has ever known.
It’s why when she feels the most alone she has ever felt, the most angry, the most betrayed, the most helpless, the most afraid, she calls out to him.
Because she knows without a doubt he will hear her
Your Mahabharata is a story of revenge, after all. The Pandava’s revenge.
The road to penance
The forest thinned as Arjuna climbed, replaced by stone, frost, and sky. Trees gave way to rock, and then, rock gave way to snow. The air turned sharper, the wind colder, biting through his clothes and into his bones like old guilt.
He did not look back often. When he did, he saw only mist swallowing the trail behind him- thick and white and uncaring, as though the world itself had closed the door. Go on, it seemed to say. There is nothing for you behind.
By the third day, the silence was louder than any war cry. It crept into his ears, pressed against his ribs, filled his lungs until each breath became a question. He welcomed it. Silence did not ask why he hadn't spoken when the dice fell.
Silence did not ask why he had not torn the sabha down with his bare hands. Silence did not whisper: You are the archer who never missed, yet you missed the moment that mattered most.
He walked with those thoughts like ghosts at his side. And with the cold, always the cold. It was not just in the wind; it was in his blood, in the marrow of his bones, in the soft parts behind his eyes. It reminded him of the night Draupadi's laughter had gone quiet, and he'd sat outside their hut with his bow in his lap and nothing to shoot at but memory.
On the fifth night, he dreamed. No, not of war or fire or fate. Just Krishna: wild-eyed, grinning, sprinting barefoot through Satyaki's garden with a twelve-year-old Abhimanyu at his heels. That part was strange. He'd left his son when he was five. But in dreams, the boy had grown.
"Too slow, Abhi!" Krishna laughed, his beautiful curly hair flying, mango juice dripping down his chin.
"Mama! I had no shoes!" Abhimanyu shouted, brandishing a stick like a sword. "And you cheated!"
"All's fair in mangoes and mayhem, sweetheart." Arjuna laughed in his sleep. A rare, rusted sound. He actually even woke with a smile still caught in his throat. Thought it didn't last.
Because he remembered how Krishna had looked at him after the sabha. Not with anger. Not even with pity.
Just... sorrow, with a hole of disappointment. A quiet, soul-deep sorrow: as though he had failed, not Arjuna. As though he had given Arjuna the bow and watched him lay it down.
Then came the mountains. The real ones.
The ones where the wind was not the kind that whispered. It howled: an ancient, toothless cry that had clawed at these Himalayan cliffs long before kingdoms rose or dharma was spoken of in courtly verse. Arjuna bent his head against it, his breath ragged and clouding the thin air. The trail underfoot had long disappeared, buried beneath stubborn snow. Only the mountain remained: vast, unspeaking, indifferent.
He hadn't eaten in days. Not since he had crossed the last outpost of men and fire. Hunger had long since left behind the dull ache of need; now it gnawed at his spine, made his vision stutter. Yet he pressed on. Not as a warrior, just as a man trying to find stillness somewhere inside a body that would not stop trembling.
He did not speak. For there was no one to speak too, but also because words felt too loud in this place, too mortal. The silence was not absence- it was a presence, thick and echoing, forcing him to listen.
And so, it found him.
Shrutakarma, four years old, chasing him across a courtyard with a wooden bow and painted arrows, cheeks flushed with laughter, mimicking his father's stance with fearless delight. His brothers watching, chuckling at the youngest's theatrics.
Krishna's voice by firelight, warm with mischief: "You fight better when you're angry, Partha. But you lead better when you're calm."
Kunti's hand on his cheek before the exile, soft and worn. "You're still here," she had said. "You must let yourself be."
The memories struck without rhythm. Like stray arrows from nowhere.
And then the one that never missed. The sabha. The dice. Draupadi's cry. Bhima's fury. Yudhishthira's silence. And he-Arjuna. Partha. The archer whose aim was legend; had stood still.
Helpless... no, not helpless. Worse. He had been useless. All that strength, all that skill- and when it mattered, he had been a silent, watching coward clothed in gold and guilt.
No mountain wind could strip that memory away.
He stumbled. His knees struck the snow hard, sinking deep into the frozen crust. This time, he did not rise quickly; as the cold no longer bit, it seeped. Quietly. Thoroughly. A numbness that dulled not just skin, but thought. His fingers, that could easily lift the mighty Gandiva, had gone pale and unfeeling, curled stiffly at his sides.
He was not dressed for such heights. His garments, worn and travel-stained, were suited to forest shadows and monsoon rains- not to scale gods' shoulders. Frost clung to his long lashes like silver dust. The world tilted, weightless and white. Snow swallowed the sky and the earth alike. The only sound was his pulse; fluttering, fading, like the echo of a battle drum too far to reach.
He knelt there, a figure carved in stillness....
... and somewhere between sleep and death, he thought he saw fire.
A flicker of orange through the white; a distant warmth nestled between trees that shouldn't have been there. A grove where none had stood moments ago. Was it a memory? A trick of exhaustion? Or something older, something watching?
But he didn't crawl toward it. Not yet. Instead, something inside him stirred. A single thought: Get up.
Not for glory. Not for war. Not even for redemption. Just, get up.
This body may be broken by cold, but it was the same body trained to endure. To obey. To fight through pain until pain itself became silence.
He had trained in forests that tore at his skin, stood unmoving under waterfalls until the weight of it drove men to collapse. He had aimed arrows through lightning storms, focused past hunger, heat, and humiliation. When others had faltered, he had refined. Sharpened. Endured. So he walked.
Not because he was strongest. Not even because he was destined. But because he wanted to be better.
It was because he was Arjuna, and Arjuna would never stop walking.
So he breathed. Once. Twice. Ragged, shallow gasps. Then deeper. He forced the air into his chest like drawing a bow. Forced his limbs to move- shaking, clumsy, but moving.
The cold no longer defeated him; it forged him. The mind would adjust, the skin thickened, and his muscles would remember how to work even when they screamed.
He rose, not with grandeur but with grit: teeth clenched, eyes narrowed. He bent his will to the mountain.
One step. Then another.
He kept thinking: Somewhere- his fire awaited, somewhere- the gods watched.
Inside him, a flame sparked- a little smaller than a torch, a little stronger than death.
He crawled. Climbed. Walked.
At first, every movement was agony. The wind mocked him, tore at his garments, hissed in his ears like it meant to wear him down to nothing. His knees scraped over stone, fingers raw from catching himself against jagged ice.
Then eventually, His walk grew steadier. His spine straightened. His steps, no longer stumbles, became rhythm. The burn in his muscles dulled to a hum. Hunger faded into stillness. Cold into clarity. Until walking felt like breathing rather than a chore.
And only then, only when the mountain no longer seemed like a punishment but a presence, did he see it. The beauty.
Not in the grandeur alone- though the peaks stretched like ivory spires, and the clouds moved like silk across their crest- but in the silence between it all. In the hush after every step. In the way the stars unveiled themselves like old friends once the sun dipped behind the ridges. In how the earth, unmoved by empires or epics, simply was.
There was no battle here. No sabha. No war drums. Only a sky so vast it made his grief feel small. There was snow, soft enough to forgive. He walked in that silence for days, alone but no longer lost.
Then, at the twilight of the 23rd day, he found the boy.
Bed of Arrows
Oh, Father, the greatest of Kurus, The child you left became a shield; A shield of iron, cold and strong, Unbreakable, unbending steel. Yet here I lie, surrounded by blood and rusted fate.
I am nothing but my pride, A river’s son, a kingdom’s guard. All my life, I lived for you, Oh, tell me, Father, did you see me rise?
I rest upon this blood-soaked land, Between the earth and endless sky. A bed of arrows; his gift of war, Yet no softer place have I ever known.
I count the stars, I count their eyes- The faces of my grandsons blur. One by one, they slip like sand, And soon, I shall join them all.
I do not fear death, Amba, But I fear your gaze when I meet you beyond. Will you still burn with rage? Or will we, at last, understand?
Oh, how I have sinned, my gods… My Putravadhu, my Putri Draupadi- The day she fell, my pride was lost. The taste of water turned to ash, The sound of music- only screams.
The throne I upheld, yet never touched, The vows I kept, yet none kept me. A guardian sworn to serve, to stand- Yet shackled fast,was I ever free?
The student of the great Parashurama, My sword rose for kings, for wars, For justice that was never mine. The hands that shaped a nation's fate, Now tremble—not from time, But from the injustices I saw, yet chose to bear.
And now, the boy I used to train, With tear-stained eyes kneels at my side. His hands, once firm, now shake in grief, His heart, always soft, now torn inside.
Oh, Arjuna, my dearest son, You weep for me, but do not mourn. For even kings must meet the dust, And I am just a warrior waiting, for rest.
Oh father mine, my end is near
The sun will turn, the world will change, This age of war will fade with time. But as I go, one question remains- My life was theirs… yet was it ever mine?
Mahabharata – The Fall of the Hero – Bhishma by Giampaolo Tomassetti
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."
FIRE AND RAIN
The first time I saw her, I was clad in disguise, Betrayed by the ones we called family, Bound by my mother’s words- You brothers will suffice. Yet I stared, amidst the kings and princes of Bharatvarsha, Where steel and pride were woven thick, Where men sought glory, aiming at the near impossible. Yet there she stood- unshaken, unmoved, Born of fire, a flame no storm could quell. Her hair, a river of endless midnight silk, Her lotus eyes, a single glance, and hearts would tremble. Yet in their depths, my gods… Not a maiden’s dream, but a warrior’s strength. Gold and diamonds adorned her form, Yet they dimmed before her radiant glow. For she was not the moon’s borrowed light, She was the brimming fire of a sacred Agni Kunda. Then she walked, and the air grew still, A hush of petals upon a royal garden, The world inhaled the scent of a lotus dream. Oh, but she was not soft alone, Thunder echoed in the step of her stride, A tempest roared within her veins. She, a no mere flower, But a storm waiting to rise. I, the son of Indra: you, the blessing of fire. Would I be the bow or the arrow you set to flight? Would I ever know the strength that shapes the storm, The brilliance of her fearless light? I am but a Brahmin in disguise, Standing before a flame that will not bend. And in her gaze, I glimpse a path, A journey that will never end.
I'm supposed to finish assignments but my mind is elsewhere...
As Arjuna plummeted toward his fate, his mind was a storm of regrets and unanswered questions- yet woven through the sorrow was the undeniable truth of all he had lived for.
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.
He had been so tired for so long.
