Your gateway to endless inspiration
Pandavas - Blog Posts
The Sword
It had started, oddly enough, with failure.
Arjuna-yes, that Arjuna- had all but dropped his sword in the first lesson. Not misplaced. Not handed it over politely. Dropped it. Right in front of Acharya Drona.
The sword clattered like a gong struck too hard, bouncing once on the sun-baked stones and landing neatly at Drona’s feet. Arjuna winced. He was eleven. Mortified.
Drona hadn’t moved. He stared at the boy, eyes unreadable.
Arjuna, cheeks flaming, bent to retrieve it.
“Pick it up again,” Drona said, voice as smooth as dry flint. “Try again.”
No sighs. No comfort. No dismissal.
Just a command from his Acharya and Arjuna bowed his head and obeyed.
The bow had come naturally; it felt like it belonged to him before he ever touched it. But the sword? The sword was different. Intimate. Rebellious. Too close. It demanded something else from him…
Grit?? Grit he hadn’t yet named, but would come to know well. So, he decided to conquer it.
Not out of spite. Not even out of ambition.
He just didn’t like the feeling of losing.
By the end of the week, he’d snapped five wooden swords in half. The servants started hiding the practice ones. By the end of the month, Drona had stopped offering encouragement and simply begun showing up- arms crossed, silent, watching.
In the evenings, when the other princes wandered off to dinner or drowsy afternoons, Arjuna stayed back, panting in the dust, swinging again and again. Sand stuck to his elbows. Sweat soaked through his kurta. He never complained.
“Faster,” Drona would say.
So, Arjuna would try. Bleeding palms, shaking legs- he would try.
He was small, still growing into his limbs, quiet in ways that unnerved even Bhima. But when he moved- when he moved- it was like memory. Not the clumsy rhythm of boys mimicking heroes, but something older. Something remembered in the bones.
Drona saw it early, before the others did.
Before Bhima laughed at Arjuna’s scowl when he lost footing. Before Yudhishthira began smiling after each of Arjuna’s lessons. Before Karna appeared, brilliant and burning, to challenge everything they thought they knew.
Arjuna learned to parry by candlelight. Practiced forms in his dreams. Drona once caught him miming strikes against his own shadow, alone beneath the stars.
He trained with Bhima’s heavier sword, tied sandbags to his wrists, swung through rain until his arms trembled.
Once, when Drona caught him practicing by moonlight, the torchlight casting shadows like dancing ghosts, he asked dryly, “Why are you still up?”
Arjuna didn’t stop, “Because I still don’t like how it feels in my hands.” He paused, flashed a grin. “But soon I will.”
Drona didn’t smile often. But that night, he very nearly did.
-----------------------------------------------
Nakula was spying again.
He would call it “observing,” of course. For educational purposes. Strategic even. Definitely not “lurking under the shade of a pomegranate tree while your overly talented brother glowed like a demigod in motion.”
Arjuna was in the courtyard, training... Like always… Sword in hand, light on his feet, moving with that fluid, maddening grace of his. There was no other word for it. He made swordplay look charming.
It was the worst. Nakula sighed dramatically and plucked a guava from a nearby branch.
He didn’t hate how good Arjuna was- no one did. You couldn’t. It was like hating the sun for rising. But sometimes, just sometimes, Nakula wanted to throw a sandal at him. Lovingly. Supportively. A sandal full of affection.
He watched as Arjuna spun, then halted in a perfect guard position.
Perfect, of course.
“Show-off,” Nakula muttered fondly around a bite of guava. Arjuna looked up. “Nakula,” he called, without turning. “I can feel your glare from here.”
“Wasn’t glaring,” Nakula said, hopping off the low wall. “I was admiring. Huge difference.”
Arjuna wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “You’re always admiring me these days. Should I be concerned?”
“Only if it goes to your head,” Nakula quipped, strolling over. “Which it already has. In fact, your head’s so swollen, I’m amazed it doesn’t throw off your balance mid-spin.”
Arjuna grinned. “Careful, or I’ll make you spar with me.”
“Threats. How loving.” But Nakula held out his hand, and Arjuna, without hesitation, passed him the sword. Nakula staggered under the weight.
“Are you training with Bhima’s sword again?”
“I like the resistance,” Arjuna said casually. “Helps with wrist strength.”
“You need help?” Nakula asked sweetly. “After only four hours of training this morning?”
Arjuna rolled his eyes but smiled. “You wouldn’t understand. You were napping through most of it.”
“I was conserving energy. In case I needed to, I don’t know- rescue you from a particularly dramatic hair-related duel.”
“Once,” Arjuna groaned. “You bring it up once, and it haunts me for years.”
Nakula snickered, then shifted into a stance; feet shoulder-width apart, blade angled down. Not perfect. Not terrible either.
Arjuna stepped behind him and adjusted his shoulders. “You’ve been practicing.”
Nakula didn’t look at him. “A bit.”
“You could ask me to teach you.”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” Nakula mumbled. “You already train enough.” Arjuna blinked. “Bother me? Nakula, I taught a monkey to climb trees last week because you told me it looked sad.”
Nakula snorted. “You didn’t!”
“I did. You know I did!” Nakula turned, grinning. “Alright, fine. Teach me, O great monkey-whisperer.”
Arjuna mock-bowed. “With pleasure.”
They trained until the sun dipped low. Arjuna taught patiently, correcting with humor. Nakula asked questions. Snuck in jokes. Got whacked once with the flat of the blade for laughing too hard when Arjuna stumbled over a rock.
And through it all, Nakula felt something bubble in his chest, warmth. Not jealousy. Not even the need to compete.
Just the simple, honest desire to be good enough to stand beside his brother.
Not behind him. Beside him.
So that someday, on some battlefield or in some moment that mattered, Arjuna might look at him and nod, not because he had to, but because he meant it. Because Nakula had earned it.
At last, Arjuna clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re improving fast.”
“I’m charming,” Nakula said. “And secretly brilliant.”
Arjuna grinned. “Not so secret anymore.”
They stood together in the golden dusk, laughter fading into quiet. The sword felt lighter in Nakula’s grip now. Nakula raised the sword again, testing a stance. Arjuna adjusted his footwork without a word, smiling.
And just for a moment, Nakula imagined them side by side on a real battlefield someday; not as brothers trailing behind legends, but as legends together.
That would be enough. That would be everything.
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.
Just a little longer
“Arjuna.”
The name was spoken gently, but Krishna’s voice cracked like a leaf in the wind. He knelt beside his brother, his other half- his steady hand reaching for Arjuna’s shoulder, the other resting over the blood-soaked cloth covering the boy’s face: Covering much of the brutality left by the unjust of the battle today.
But Arjuna didn’t move.
Not even a flicker of acknowledgement.
He sat there in the dust, knees drawn, back bowed, cradling his son in his arms as if he were still small- still a child with ink-dark eyes and tiny fingers that used to tug at his bowstring in play. His armor, dented and smeared with soot and gore, pressed cold against the boy’s lifeless cheek.
This was his Abhimanyu. His child. His heart’s first dream, his soul’s fiercest prayer, his son that lay unmoving in his lap.
And now they wanted to take him away. To prepare the pyre. To burn what remained.
They might as well set him on fire.
Because Arjuna knew, he knew, that whatever he was before this moment- it had died with his son.
Oh.
How could he explain it to Krishna- to his god, his breath, his dearest soul- that it wasn’t just a body in his arms, but every hope he'd held across battlefields, across exile, across aching, endless years of longing for peace?
That this boy was the proof that something good had come from his hands- not just war and ruin and killing. That this boy had been his reason to believe in a future.
And now… Now, there was no future left.
“No,” Arjuna rasped, the word so raw it sounded more like a wound than speech. “Just a little longer.” His voice shook, nearly breaking under the strain. “Please.”
For thirteen long years, he had dreamt of holding his sons. Of running his hands through their hair. Of showing them the stars he used to name with Krishna. Of teaching them to shoot and pray and love.
He had nothing left- nothing but this. This boy. This lifeless body, so small again in his arms.
He deserved this.
Even if he deserved nothing else from fate—no crown, no kingdom, no forgiveness—he deserved to hold his son for just a while longer.
Nakula stood some feet behind, unmoving. His jaw clenched, his knuckles white, and his eyes swollen. He was murmuring to the grieving Upapandavas, trying to comfort children when he, himself, was breaking. He didn’t know how to mourn this.
He didn’t know who to mourn first- his moon-faced nephew, who once giggled in his arms as he spun him through the gardens… or his sister-in-law, now a husk of herself, drained and crumbling beneath the weight of her cries, or his brother, his brilliant, unshakable brother: now hunched and hollow, clutching loss like it was the only thing keeping him from vanishing too.
Sahadeva knelt in silence, palms joined in prayer, tears slipping down his face without resistance. Of all the brothers, Sahadeva had always sensed what others didn’t speak aloud- and what he saw now in Arjuna terrified him. Because he wasn’t just watching a father grieve, he was watching his brother unravel.
No one could move him.
Not even Bhima, whose arms had once uprooted trees and torn chariots in half, could loosen Arjuna’s grip.
The mighty warrior, the Vrikodara, had tried. He had knelt beside his brother, voice thick with grief, hands gentle despite their strength.
“Arjuna, Brother, please, let him go.”
Yet Arjuna clung tighter. His arms- bloody, bruised- wrapped around Abhimanyu’s still form like a man shielding fire from the rain.
Bhima tried again, but he could not move. Because it wasn’t just muscle holding Abhimanyu’s broken body: It was grief. Grief so dense, so ancient, so fierce that even Bhima’s strength turned useless against it.
Arjuna looked up at him then- his eyes rimmed red, lashes stiff with unshed and shed tears, dust clinging to the curve of his cheek. And in them, Bhima saw something that hollowed him out completely.
A boy. Not a warrior. Not a prince. He just saw his younger brother crushed under the weight of a loss the world had no name for.
“Just for a moment, Dada,” Arjuna whispered, his voice cracked. “If I let go now…” Arjuna’s voice faltered, and the tremor in his fingers spoke what he couldn’t say. Bhima read the unsaid words in his brother’s eyes. I’ll forget. I’ll forget how he felt.
It wasn’t just about holding Abhimanyu’s lifeless body. It was the desperate, aching need to remember: to etch the feel of his son’s broken body into his very bones.
And in that moment, Bhima realized: Arjuna wasn’t just fighting to hold onto his son. He was fighting to hold onto himself.
Bhima swallowed hard.
He had no reply. Only a tear that rolled, hot and unwanted, down his cheek and into the dust. He stood up and stepped back, shoulders shaking, fists clenched uselessly at his side.
Then, it was Yudhishthira who approached, his heart breaking into countless pieces at the sight of his younger brother, his warrior, his Phalguna, reduced to a shadow of himself.
With the gentleness of a father, Yudhishthira placed a hand on Arjuna’s shoulder, feeling the tremors that wracked his brother’s frame. His voice, usually calm and commanding, was a mere whisper now, heavy with sorrow.
“Phalgun,” Yudhishthira whispered, the name coming from him as a caress, as a gentle call to the boy Arjuna once was- so full of life, so full of promise. “My Anuj...” He paused, his chest tightening, fighting the tears that threatened to escape. “Please, let him go. We need to prepare him for the rites. You must let go, brother.”
Arjuna’s eyes remained distant, fixed on his son, his hands clutching Abhimanyu’s body as if he were afraid it would vanish, as though the very air would steal him away. His lips quivered, but no sound came.
Yudhishthira’s words were a soft echo in the storm of Arjuna’s grief. He knelt in front of him, his eyes filled with pain. "He is at peace now, Phalgun. But his soul cannot move on without this- without us giving him this final gift." The king’s voice faltered, and the man who had so often held his brothers together was now nothing more than a fragile thing, broken at the sight of his younger brother's agony.
Yudhishthira’s hand remained gently on Arjuna’s, the touch conveying all the unspoken love between them. But it was not enough. Arjuna didn’t move. His grip on Abhimanyu tightened.
Finally, it was Krishna who knelt beside him- quietly, like dusk folding itself over the ruins of a battlefield.
And in moments like this, one remembers why he is called divine- not solely for his miracles, not only for his might- but because he speaks truth even when it tears through the soul like a blade.
He placed a hand on Arjuna’s back, feeling the tremble that coursed through him, the quaking breath, the silent storm of a grief so heavy that not even gods could shoulder it.
“Arjuna,” Krishna whispered, his voice gentle- aching, threaded with centuries of love and lifetimes of brotherhood. “Our Abhimanyu… he fought like fire. He bore your name with pride. He made you proud. He made us all proud.”
Arjuna didn’t respond. His arms only curled tighter around his son’s lifeless body as if to protect him from the cold that had already taken him.
Krishna’s voice softened, but each word pressed like a blade to the soul. “Now you must do what he did. Fulfill your duty. He upheld your name, Parth. Now you must uphold his.”
He paused, then added, almost pleading, “Do not let grief cloud his honor. Let his farewell be worthy. Let your love walk with him across the fire, not cling to the ashes left behind.” Still, Arjuna didn’t look up. His cheek was pressed to Abhimanyu’s blood-matted curls. The tremble in his hands had stilled into something far worse: numbness.
“You taught him how to live, how to aim straight, how to stand tall even when the odds crushed around him.” Krishna’s voice broke slightly, despite himself. “Now teach him how to cross over. That too- is a father’s role.”
Slowly, painfully, Arjuna turned his face toward Krishna. His eyes- once bright with clarity and resolve- were red, hollow, and unfocused. The storm had passed, but it had taken everything with it.
His voice, when it came, was no more than a cracked breath, so fragile it barely reached Krishna’s ears. “My gods, Hai Prabhu,” Arjuna rasped, “I will-I will do my duty. But hai Krishna- just a moment more. Please… Please, let me stay with him… just a moment more, Madhav.”
The plea struck Krishna like no weapon ever had. The great Vishnu, the keeper of dharma, the anchor of the universe: could do nothing but close his eyes, crushed under the weight of a sorrow he could not lift.
“I know,” Krishna whispered. “I know, Parth.”
His hands, steady as they rested on Arjuna’s shoulders, now trembled as well. The bloodied cloth between them was growing colder by the minute.
“But you must let him go,” Krishna said again, voice raw. “You must walk him to the pyre. Not because you are ready but because he deserves that walk with his father.”
“I will be with you, Arjuna. Always. Your brothers are here. Your family is here. You are not alone. We still need you.” He paused, his fingers tightening slightly on Arjuna’s shoulder.
“You must let go, Parth. For the sake of his soul… and for your own.”
Arjuna’s eyes lifted to Krishna’s, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. Just them. Just grief. Just love. And the impossible moment between a father’s heart and his duty.
Then, like a bursting dam,
From deep within Arjuna’s chest, there came a cry- raw, wounded, primal. A sound not meant for the world of men, a sound that shattered through the silence and scraped at the sky. His fingers, once iron-bound in grief, began to tremble. His arms, bruised and bloodstained, slowly- painfully- unwound from the broken body of his son. And into Yudhishthira’s waiting arms, the boy was passed.
The eldest Pandava held Abhimanyu as though the weight might crush him- not his body, but his soul. His knees nearly buckled, but he did not flinch. The calmest brother, the pillar of their house, stood trembling.
Yudhishthira looked down at the boy: his nephew, his brave-hearted kin, and then up at his broken brother.
His voice cracked as he whispered, “He will never be forgotten, Phalgun. Not while I breathe. Not while any of us remain. Your son will live on- in every tale sung of courage, in every heart that knows his name.”
At Arjuna’s cry- a sound so devastating it reignited the weeping of Subhadra’s wails in Draupadi’s arms- Sahadeva and Krishna moved like lightning, instinct propelling them forward. Sahadeva caught his brother’s shoulder, steadying him with arms that had never seemed more desperate, while Krishna pulled him close.
No one there, no soul present, would ever forget how Arjuna wept that day. And Arjuna himself would never remember whose arms caught him, whose embrace cradled his collapse. Because in that moment, the world became nothing but grief.
He could barely see Abhimanyu anymore- blurred behind never-ending cascading tears. Just a flicker of a face he once kissed goodnight: a boy who had once run to him, laughing in a sun-drenched courtyard.
Arjuna’s body buckled, and he fell into Krishna’s chest, breath hitching, the sobs powerful and shaking.
And Krishna- His Madhav held him like a friend, like a brother, like the god who had carried oceans and now bore the storm that was Arjuna’s grief.
The fire had not yet been lit. The pyre stood ready.
But for Arjuna, the true burning had already begun: deep inside his chest, where no flames could be seen, and none could ever be extinguished.
His heart was already ashes, and in that quiet, trembling moment, Arjuna let go: of his son, of a piece of his soul.
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."
Arjuna: 3, Yadavas: 0- Mahabharat crack fic Series Part III
It was a bright afternoon in Dwarka, the sun hanging lazily in the sky, mirroring the way Krishna and Arjuna lounged on the shaded steps overlooking the field. A group of Yadavas lounged under the shade of a marble pavilion, their laughter echoing as they watched what had now become a familiar sight: Satyaki challenging Arjuna- a weekly occurrence
Krishna, reclining against a pillar, plucked at a blade of grass. Arjuna, sitting beside him with one knee drawn up, absentmindedly twirled a training arrow between his fingers.
"You do realize, Parth, that they won't stop until one of them beats you?" Krishna said, amusement dancing in his voice.
Arjuna let out a small chuckle. "And when has that ever happened?"
Krishna laughed, shaking his head. Below them, Satyaki was stretching his arms, rolling his shoulders with exaggerated confidence. Pradyumna and Samba stood on either side of him, whispering among themselves. The younger Yadavas: brothers, cousins, and warriors-in-training- all gathered around, eager to watch.
“They’re plotting,” Krishna remarked, watching the trio below with a knowing glint in his eyes.
Arjuna sighed, shaking his head. "They always do."
Krishna grinned. “And yet, you continue to indulge them.”
Arjuna turned to him, his expression softening just a little. "Let them dream, Madhav. They are young. It is good for them to believe, even for a moment, that they stand a chance."
Krishna hummed in agreement, a smile tugging at his lips. "And do you ever let them win?"
Arjuna smirked. "Nope."
Before Krishna could reply, below them, Satyaki called out, “Come on, Parth! Let’s see if you can still keep up with me.”
A chorus of cheers and laughter rose from the assembled warriors, all eager for the spectacle. Pradyumna and Samba stood just behind him, pretending not to be involved but clearly far too eager.
Arjuna sighed dramatically and rose to his feet. " Very well, Yuyudhana. Let’s not keep your admirers waiting.”
He rose, stretching with elegance that made even something as simple as standing up look like an art. Krishna followed lazily, clearly in no rush to interfere.
The younger Yadavas whispered among themselves. “Satyaki might actually win this time,” one said.
“He’s faster now,” another added.
Krishna stifled a laugh. "They have so much faith in Satyaki, don't they?" Arjuna shook his head in mild exasperation before stepping forward. "Come then, my friend. Show me what you've learned."
The wrestling match had barely begun when Satyaki, brimming with confidence, lunged at Arjuna.
It might have worked… if Arjuna weren’t Arjuna.
Satyaki lunged, fast and strong- but against Arjuna, fast and strong were never enough.
With an almost casual movement, Arjuna sidestepped at the last moment, caught Satyaki’s arm, and redirected his force mid-air.
THUD…
Satyaki landed flat on his back, staring up at the sky, the breath knocked out of him. The watching onlookers winced.
From the steps, Krishna called out, “That looked graceful, Satyaki. Do you need a moment?”
Satyaki groaned. “I-I'm fine.”
Pradyumna folded his arms. "That looked painful."
Samba grinned. "Not as painful as what we’re about to do."
Before Arjuna could even turn around, the two young Yadava princes pounced.
Samba went for his legs while Pradyumna leapt for his shoulders. A sound strategy, against anyone else that is.
Arjuna, without so much as a frown, shifted his weight at the perfect moment. He caught Pradyumna mid-air with one arm and smoothly stepped aside- causing Samba to charge forward into thin air.
Samba, unable to stop in time, crashed straight into Satyaki.
“Off! Get off me, you little menace!” Satyaki groaned.
Arjuna, meanwhile, glanced down at Pradyumna, still held securely in his grip, like a father humoring an impatient son. “You seem troubled, Yuvraj,” Arjuna mused, his voice smooth as silk.
Pradyumna glared, red-faced, struggled in his grip. "Put me down, uncle!"
Arjuna smiled. "Oh? But you seemed eager to climb me a moment ago."
Samba, tangled with Satyaki, cackled. “He got you there.”
Pradyumna, refusing to lose face, latched onto Arjuna’s arm and refused to let go. Samba, never one to miss an opportunity, grabbed onto his other side.
Satyaki, deciding that this was the perfect time for revenge, lunged at Arjuna’s back.
It was three against one.
For anyone else, this would have been a fight.
For Arjuna? With a single, almost lazy shift of movement, he broke Samba and Pradyumna’s grip, twisted, and let Satyaki’s own momentum carry him forward- straight into the dirt. The three Yadavas collapsed in a heap, groaning. Dust flew everywhere.
Arjuna dusted off his sleeves, completely unruffled. He turned to Krishna, who was watching with clear amusement.
"Was that entertaining enough for you, Govind?"
Krishna chuckled. "It was brief but enjoyable. I did warn them."
Satyaki, still sprawled on the ground, glared up at Arjuna. "I will win one day."
Arjuna smiled fondly. "I admire your optimism, Yuyudhana."
Pradyumna, patting away all the dust from his being, muttered defeatly, “I hate him.”
Arjuna turned to him with genuine warmth in his eyes. "I know you don’t, Pradyumna. But do tell me when you’re ready to train again, I will teach you how to be better."
Pradyumna, despite himself, looked away, the irritation in his expression replaced by something almost begrudgingly respectful.
Samba, still grinning, clapped Arjuna on the back. “You’re annoying, but I like you.”
Arjuna let out a soft laugh and mussed Samba’s hair like an elder brother. "Likewise, little prince."
Krishna, watching the exchange, smiled knowingly. "You see, Parth? They admire you more than they admit."
Arjuna sighed, shaking his head with a fond smile. "They will be the end of me one day, Madhav."
Krishna laughed. "Then you’ll have to stay undefeated, won’t you?"
And with that, the three bruised, exhausted Yadavas stood once more- ready, even in their defeat, to challenge Arjuna again another day.
Bhima and his mighty arms- Mahabharat crack fic Series Part II
The first thud was loud enough to make Arjuna pause mid-sentence. The second thud had Nakula looking up from his polished sword. The third thud made Sahadeva slowly, carefully, close the scroll he was reading. The fourth thud- accompanied by the ominous clinking of golden rings being stripped off thick fingers- had all three of them turning toward the source. Bhima. He was smiling. That was a problem. "You know," Bhima said pleasantly, as he slipped off his armlets and tossed them onto the growing pile of discarded ornaments. "I usually let things go." No, he did not. "I mean, I am a reasonable person." He unfastened his necklace, an impressive piece of gold that clattered onto the table. "Patient, even." Yudhishthira, who had been pretending not to be involved in this mess, shut his eyes. He knew where this was going. He had long accepted that he was doomed to suffer through his younger brothers' antics for as long as he lived. "Bhima," he tried, rubbing his temples, "please." Bhima ignored him. He held up a single finger, dangerously cheerful, as he removed his last ring and set it down with a delicate tap. Then, very deliberately, he cracked his knuckles. "Which one of you," he said, still smiling, "said I wouldn’t be able to carry all three of you at once anymore?" There was silence. Then... "It was Nakula," Arjuna said immediately, shifting slightly behind Sahadeva. "Excuse me?" Nakula turned, scandalized. "It was not! It was you, Bhrata Arjun!" Sahadeva, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat. "It was actually both of you. And technically, I believe I agreed." "Traitor," Nakula hissed. Bhima exhaled through his nose, looking far too delighted for anyone’s comfort. "So that’s how it is, huh?" A beat. Then three things happened at once: Arjuna bolted. Nakula lunged for the door. Sahadeva tried to take the high road and stay put, but immediately regretted it when Bhima lunged. Somewhere in the chaos, Arjuna yelled, "HE CAN STILL DO IT! HE CAN STILL DO IT!" as Bhima caught all three of them in an unbreakable grip. Nakula screeched in outrage, Sahadeva resigned himself to his fate, and Yudhishthira pressed his forehead to the table, done with all of them. And across the room-lounging on a divan, eating grapes: Krishna was laughing so hard he almost fell over. "Oh, this is delightful," Krishna wheezed, wiping at his eyes. "Do it again, Bhima, I wasn't watching properly the first time." Bhima did do it again. Just for Krishna. By the end of it, all three younger brothers were thrown onto a pile of cushions, Bhima stood victorious, and Yudhishthira wondered, not for the first time, why he had been born the eldest. Krishna, still grinning, leaned toward Yudhishthira and whispered, "At least they are affectionate." Yudhishthira stared blankly at him. Then, with the last shred of dignity he had, he got up and left the room. He needed a break. Perhaps a lifetime-long one.
Later that evening, after the chaos had settled and Yudhishthira had successfully escaped the madness (for now), Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva sat nursing their bruised egos and sore limbs.
Bhima, still smug, was polishing off the last of his sweets while Krishna watched with open amusement.
Nakula, who had finally tamed his hair again, crossed his arms. "I still want to know who told Bhima about this in the first place."
Arjuna frowned, rubbing his shoulder. "Yeah, I mean… we said that days ago. When did he find out?"
There was silence as the three of them thought back. Then, slowly, all eyes turned to Krishna.
Krishna smiled.
"You didn’t," Arjuna groaned.
Krishna popped a grape into his mouth. "I may have."
Sahadeva blinked. "Why?"
"Because it was funny," Krishna admitted, with absolutely no shame. "You three, gossiping like little parrots, questioning Bhima’s strength? How could I not tell him?"
Bhima laughed, slapping his knee. "See? Even Krishna agrees! I had to remind you all who the strongest is!"
Nakula gaped at him. "You threw us across the room!"
"And yet," Bhima grinned, "I could have thrown you further."
Arjuna slumped back dramatically. "We are doomed. We have been betrayed."
Sahadeva, ever practical, exhaled. "To be fair, we did doubt him."
Krishna pointed at him. "See? At least one of you has some wisdom."
Bhima patted Sahadeva on the head. "Good little brother. You, I like."
Sahadeva swatted his hand away. "You like throwing me into furniture!"
"That too."
Arjuna leaned toward Krishna. "You are the problem," he accused.
Krishna rested his chin on his hand, eyes twinkling. "Oh, Parth, my dear, my dearest, I am always the problem. You should know this by now."
Arjuna groaned again and let himself fall back onto the cushions.
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.
Arjun and Vasudeva moments
"You remind me of my father," he murmured.
The words were softer, almost lost in the stillness of the room, but everyone heard them. The teasing stopped. The smirks faded. The easy mirth in Krishna's eyes dimmed just a little.
Vasudeva, who had been gently supporting Arjuna all this time, stilled. He knew whom Arjuna was speaking of.
Pandu.
His old friend. His comrade. A man taken too soon.
Arjuna's amber eyes were heavy-lidded, hazy with sleep and intoxication, but behind them- there was clarity. A deep, distant emotion settled in them, something that had been there for years but had never truly been spoken aloud.
"I don't remember him much," Arjuna admitted, his voice dipping into something low, something fragile. "I was too young when he left us. But I remember his voice. I remember how gentle he was. How... how he always looked at us like we were his whole world."
Satyaki, who had been leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, uncrossed them. Pradyumna's amused expression faded into something softer. Even Kritavarma, usually composed, lowered his gaze, it felt like intruding in a private conversation.
Arjuna's hand curled slightly against his knee. He exhaled slowly, carefully, as if trying to gather himself, but the words kept coming.
"Jestha bhrata remembers him the most," he murmured, his lips quirking in a way that was neither a smile nor a frown. Just... something aching. "He was the one who held us together after. He was the one who carried all of us when we had no one."
Krishna-ever perceptive, ever knowing-closed his eyes.
"He never got to be a child."
Echos of a life lived- More thoughts
The mountain had taken the last thing he had left-his pride in himself.
Yudhishthira will not turn back for me.
The thought should have angered him. It did not.
He is still walking. Still moving forward.
Perhaps that was how it was meant to be. Yudhishthira had always been ahead of him, carrying burdens none of them could fathom. He would make it to the gates of heaven. He deserved to.
Arjuna had never been meant to reach the end, and maybe that was alright.
Because for all his regrets, for all his failures, he had also lived.
He had lived in the rush of battle, in the whisper of bowstrings, in the heat of the chase. He had lived in stolen moments, in Draupadi’s gaze, in Krishna’s laughter, in the arms of his children. He had lived in love and rage, in grief and triumph.
And now, he was falling.
But he was not afraid.
The sky blurred into the earth, the wind howled in his ears, and Arjuna- Pandava, warrior, brother, father- closed his eyes.
And let go.
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.
