Author's Note:

I'm sorry for breaking my promise to update monthly. As I have already stated I was in an accident and was bedridden for several days. I got my cast recently done because of a compound fracture and recently started writing.

Anyway, thank you to everyone who waited patiently for this story.



But I have to warn you that this will be a lot darker than the rest of my chapters. Karna will be a bit unhinged in this. I know I stand the risk of pissing off most of my reader base. My friend HopeMikaelson2009 has warned me of this and yet I decided to go ahead.



Karna will be a bit of a villain in this chapter. And I'm not really in a good frame of mind when I wrote or posted this. Still I wish you would enjoy.



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"You did promise Parameshwara to always follow Dharma. You also said that any Dharma you missed in past lives, you'd make up for in this one," Krishna reminded him, his voice steady. Vasusena nodded, his gaze drifting to the horizon where the sun began its descent, casting a golden hue over the land. The air was thick with the scent of earth, mingling with the distant fragrance of blooming flowers. Birds chirped their evening songs, a stark contrast to the simmering anger brewing in Radheya's heart.



"Then why aren't you standing with your brothers, who are linked to you not just by blood but by their just cause?" Krishna's words cut through the tranquil afternoon like a blade, sharp and unyielding, leaving the air heavy with their weight.



Vasusena's expression shifted, the simmering anger that had fueled him moments before giving way to incredulity. He mouthed the question to himself to make sure it had really been asked and he had not just hallucinated it—Was Krishna being serious?



As if the answer wasn't already clear?



He hated the principles of Yudhistira more than the adharma caused by Suyodhana. His very nature went against what Yudhisthira was. Everyone who knew him well knew this as a fact.



Had anyone else posed this question, he would have understood their perspective, dismissed it even. But Krishna himself posing this question made him wonder if the Pandavas too frequently grappled with the urge to declare the dark-skinned lord their Court Jester.



The last time they had crossed paths, the Prince of Yadavas had sought to shatter his very soul, to weaken him so that his eventual death would be but a formality.



So what was Keshava planning now? What new game was he playing?



Most might call him paranoid, but Vasusena knew better. He had seen too much, lived through too many futures to dismiss his gut instincts. And in all the futures he had witnessed, Padmanabha never interfered with the choices and decisions of those who had returned from the brink of death and was reincarnated by the power of Pashupatastra.



Keshava had always remained a distant observer, never intervening in the actions of anyone be it Mahamahim Bhishma, Guru Drona, Ashwatthama, or any of the others. His role had been that of the silent watcher, not the meddler.



Yet here he was, questioning Vasusena's loyalty, urging him to fight alongside his brothers. Something was fundamentally wrong with this picture. But what? What was Krishna's true intention? What unseen threads was he pulling in this intricate tapestry of fate?



Vasusena's mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of this puzzling scenario. And the more he thought about it, the more uneasy he became. Krishna was breaking his own pattern, disrupting the natural course of events. Why? What did he stand to gain from this? And more importantly, what did he know that Vasusena did not?



That perhaps was the most terrifying part of all.



The sun cast long shadows across the landscape, the golden light playing off Krishna's serene face, making it seem as if divinity itself was cloaked in the soft hues of dusk. Adhirathi's heart thundered in his chest, his inner turmoil etched into every line of his furrowed brow, his posture taut with the weight of a decision which, honestly, shouldn't have felt as impossible as it did. Another side-effect of the searing intensity of Narayana's gaze, perhaps.



"Should I stand by Dharma, or should I stand with my brothers, Keshava?" Vasusena's voice, though steady, carried the heavy burden of unresolved emotions, each word tinged with the pain of his life experience.



The eighth incarnation of Vishnu allowed a small, knowing smile to touch his lips at that question. "Are they both not the same, cousin?"



The Son of the Surya Deva gritted his teeth at the unwelcome familiarity in the question. "Keshava... their actions are seen as Dharma only because they are devoted to you and because you have chosen to stand by them. But they are not inherently Dharmic, Keshava. It is your presence that casts them in the light of righteousness," His voice, though respectful, held an edge, sharp and cutting through the placid air between them.



"Yet are they not better than the eldest son of Dhritarashtra?" Krishna's voice remained calm, but there was a challenge woven into his words, a subtle push against Vasusena's reasoning.



"Yudhishthira is a traditionalist, Keshava—a man who clings to Dharma's letter, but not its spirit," Vasusena began, his voice gaining strength as he spoke, the conviction behind his words clear. "He witnessed his father succumb to lust and suffer the consequences of a curse that led to his death.



That sight scarred him deeply, turning him into a man obsessed with rules, a man who locks his heart away in the name of righteousness. But in doing so, he forgets the emotional toll his strict adherence to Dharma exacts on those around him. He is a man who shows unwavering devotion to Brahmins and Kshatriyas, but remains blind to the suffering his actions inflict upon the lower castes."



Radheya paused, his gaze distant, filled with a sorrow that seemed to echo through time itself. "Yudhishthira is another Bhishma in making. He was revered as an intelligent and a Dharmathma king. And to the outsiders he is the epitome of a king, a calm and wise leader who would uphold Dharma at any cost."



Krishna nodded, his eyes reflecting the wisdom of countless ages. "That is true, and I accept your words, Vasusena." His tone was measured, almost as if inviting further reflection. But as if Krishna had not interrupted him at all, Vasusena continued, his voice gaining momentum like a storm gathering strength.



"But what most people fail to grasp is this: if a Dharma becomes the cause of unjust actions, if it becomes a tool for suffering, then what is the true value of such a Dharma?" Radheya's voice wavered slightly, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.



"In my misplaced dharma for my friendship... I caused several people to suffer. Mahamahim Bhishma's oath was dharma to him but you knew how many people suffered for it." The pain of his past mistakes and the weight of his decisions were palpable, etched into every word he spoke. "Yudhistira would regret the pain it would cause another person. But if given a chance under the same circumstances... he would not change his ways and would do it again without a question."



"Duryodhana is an adharmi who delighted in tormenting his cousins," Krishna's voice was sharp, like a blade cutting through the fog of Adhirathi's words. "From the poisoning of Bhima to the house of lacquer, to the hall of dice, and many more sins too numerous to count. And yet, why do you still stand by him, Vasusena?"



Vasusena's shoulders slumped slightly, his eyes dropping to the ground as he replied softly, "Because, Keshava, despite all his flaws, he has never hurt his loved ones out of a misplaced sense of Dharma. Suyodhana does not care if others think he is an adharmi.



As long as his loved ones were happy... there are no sins he wouldn't commit to keep them that way." His voice was barely above a whisper, yet it carried the strength of unbreakable resolve.



"Even if I ever considered joining your side or Yudhistira, I could never know when I would be treated as nothing more than a dispensable pawn, easily sacrificed when the time came.



Because for his dharma... Yudhistira didn't even hesitate to make his brothers suffer. What am I in the face of that?"



Vasusena paused, his gaze shifting to Krishna's, trying in vain to search for what the Vishwadhipathi might be thinking. "And though it has caused me immense pain, I understand your actions, Keshava. I know why you have done what you have done, especially after receiving the gift from Shankara.



In your quest to establish Dharma, you cannot afford to grieve, even if it means the death of your loved ones. Because you know, deep in your heart, that those sacrifices are necessary to ensure the survival of the world, to prevent Kali from growing even stronger."



Vasusena's voice grew firmer, but also more tinged with bitterness, as he continued, his eyes now burning with the intensity of molten amber. The warmth with which he had spoken of Suyodhana earlier seemed to evaporate like dew under the scorching midday sun. "But Yudhistira... Yudhistira is different. He has no such constraints. His actions are governed by his personal Dharma, by his rigid adherence to rules.



If he ever feels that his personal Dharma has been dishonored, he wouldn't hesitate to cause pain to others, without a second thought for the consequences. That is a good quality for a person in the position of Yama Dharmaraja. Impartiality and honesty are good qualities for a judge, Keshava. But for a king, empathy is worth much more."



Vasusena's eyes, once filled with sorrow, now blazed with a fierce resolve. "If I stand by Suyodhana's side, I know that he would never make a choice that would cause pain or inconvenience to me or his loved ones, just to be seen as a good man. He may be flawed, but he is loyal, and he would never abandon those he cares about."



Krishna remained silent, his expression inscrutable. For a moment, the only sound was the whisper of the wind through the trees, as if the world itself was holding its breath. And in that silence, the truth of Vasusena's words hung heavy in the air, undeniable and inescapable. Even Krishna knew that Vasusena was not wrong.



Vaikartana remained silent for several moments. Finally, he spoke, his voice measured, "Can I ask you a few questions, Anaya?"



Krishna's gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing slightly. "For every question of yours I answer, you must answer one of mine, Ravisuna."



Vasusena inclined his head, accepting the terms. "Then please, ask your question first."



Without hesitation, Krishna's voice cut through the tension like a knife. "You've spoken at length about your views on Yudhistira. What, then, is your view on Duryodhana?"



A brief silence fell between them before Suryaputra spoke, his voice carrying an unexpected tenderness. "Suyodhana... even as he grew into a man, he never quite shed the innocence of a child. Bratty, temperamental, but with a heart that was boundlessly kind. An overgrown baby—that's who my Suyodhana is." A faint smile touched Vasusena's lips, a rare softness in his hardened demeanour.



"He is an iconoclast who cared little for the traditions handed down by his ancestors. To him, wealth and status mean nothing. He makes friends with both the rich and the poor alike, judging them solely by their capabilities and their character. When his heart is not clouded by hatred for the Pandavas, his love knows no bounds. He cares deeply, without discrimination, for all the people in his kingdom."



Vasusena's voice softened as he spoke of his friend, his words laced with both pride and sorrow. "To those who looked in from the outside, he was an immoral and terrible king. But in the remote mountains, temples were built in his name. There, among the tribals whom he treated with respect, he is revered as a god.



Suyodhana may have been loathed by many in the kingdom, thanks to the words of Prime Minister Vidhur, but those who truly knew him saw a different side. Even his own mother's heart turned cold against him, and that... that was the starting point of his chessboard of politics. His every move was seen with hate and loathing."



Karna paused, his eyes distant as if recalling memories etched in pain. "But when he died, Keshava... the entirety of Hastinapur wailed. They mourned for their intelligent prince, their fierce protector. For a man who was despised at the beginning of his life, to be loved so deeply in death... it speaks volumes about the kind of king he truly was."



A shadow of sadness crossed Radheya's face, but his voice remained firm. "To transform such deep-seated hate into love, he had to have been a good king. Even you cannot deny this truth, Keshava.



The only difference between him and Yudhistira is that one of them had a protector like you by his side, guiding him, while the other had only those like me and Gandharraj, who should have guided him in the right way but were responsible for him sinking further into the well of adharma."



Radheya's eyes met Krishna's, a challenge burning within them. "One turned from an average ruler into a great king because you stood beside him, lending your wisdom and strength. The other, despite his excellence, will be remembered in the annals of history as an adharmi, a villain, because you favored the Pandavas, making him your enemy by default."



Vasusena's voice took on a tone of resigned bitterness as he continued, "Against Vishnu, there is always Kali. The moment you pledged your support to Sahadeva and decided to fight on the side of the Pandavas, Suyodhana's fate was sealed. From that moment, his mind, and the minds of those who stood with him, became the stronghold of Kali."



Krishna's gaze was cold, his voice dripping with scorn, as he spoke, "You laud Suyodhana as a good king, Karna, and yet you seem to overlook a crucial detail. Did you forget that both of you, in your mutual malevolence, orchestrated the public humiliation of a woman who was, in Suyodhana's case, akin to a sister, and in your case, a daughter?



You ordered Draupadi to be stripped naked in the assembly—an act of cruel degradation—and you precious Duryodhana did nothing to stop its conduction. Yes, there was the insidious influence of Kali, but does that absolve him of such cruelty? Does it make right the wrongs committed against an innocent woman?"



Krishna's words cut in sharply, each syllable a piercing indictment. "In Suyodhana's kingdom, a woman's honor was reduced to nothing more than a plaything for the whims and lusts of men. So tell me Vasusena, why are you still clinging to the notion that he is better than Yudhistira, the son of Yama, the king of Dharma?"



Vasusena, his face a mask of inner turmoil, remained silent for several minutes, the weight of Krishna's accusations settling heavily upon him. Finally he spoke, his voice stoic and even,in sharp contrast to his eyes . "I agree with you, Keshava."



Krishna nearly stumbled, his mental speech for countering the expected argument stopping mid-way. Vasusena conceding so readily was a surprise to him. "So, you agree, then?" Krishna pressed, his tone a mix of surprise and challenge.



"Yes, I agree. In Suyodhana's kingdom, a woman's honor is nothing more than a plaything for the lust of men." Vasusena's tone darkened as he continued. "May I ask my question now, Madhava?"



Krishna's gaze sharpened, sensing the gravity of Vasusena's forthcoming question. He knew that this inquiry would probe a dark and uncomfortable truth. Tendrils of unease formed in both of their hearts, yet Krishna steeled his heart. He nodded in affirmation.



"In Suyodhana's kingdom, a woman's honor is reduced to nothing more than a plaything for the lust of men. " Vasusena's voice trembled with a mixture of anger and sorrow. "So what exactly is a human in the Kingdom of Yudhistira?"



Krishna's expression hardened, his silence an ominous reflection of the gravity of the question posed.



"Speak, Keshava," Vasusena insisted, his gaze piercing through Krishna's silence. "What is a human in the Kingdom of Yudhistira?"



When Krishna remained silent, Vasusena's amber eyes darkened with mirthful disdain. "No answer?" he asked, his voice taking on a bitter edge. "Very well, I shall answer my own question."



"In the Kingdom of Yudhistira," the son of Radha declared with a mocking smile and a shark-like smile, "a human is nothing more than a slave. A person is enslaved by the caste system, bound to their social strata. They are subservient to their elder brother, their family head, and ultimately, the king himself." A deep wrath mingled with his words as he nearly growled out his answer.



"Even a slave has more dignity than this. A human in Yudhistira's kingdom is nothing but a puppet, dancing to the whims of those in power.



If they refuse to conform, they are branded as adharmi." His gaze was piercing, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. "In Yudhistira's kingdom, one's birth, caste, and might determine their worth. Might make right."



Krishna remained silent, his eyes reflecting the turmoil within him. In Dwapara Yuga, the caste system was intended to serve societal order, but it had been perverted into a tool of oppression. As Kali Yuga approached, these injustices would only deepen, with the system becoming more grotesque and exploitative.



But Vasusena had not yet reached the most disturbing part of the accusations against his younger brother.



Vasusena continued, his voice growing more intense, his gaze searing in its wrath. "You spoke of how, 'In Suyodhana's kingdom, a woman's honor is nothing more than a plaything for the lust of men.' And I agree—absolutely, I agree.



We committed that abominable sin. And for that all of us died in the Kurukshetra. But tell me Keshava, what is a woman's honor in the Kingdom of Yudhistira?



Krishna still remained silent and Vasusena snorted. "You cannot answer this because women's honor does not exist. In Yudhistira's kingdom, a woman does not even possess personal honor. Her honor belongs to her father, and later to her husband. She is denied autonomy. Hell, in Yudhistira's kingdom, a woman has no basic rights."



Krishna's expression was inscrutable as Vasusena's words cut through the silence. "She is nothing more than property, a possession to be controlled by her father and later her husband.



Yudhistira, with his supposed adherence to Dharma, treated the most formidable queen in the entirety of Aryavartha as an object to be owned. The way he abandoned her dignity..." Vasusena's voice grew harsh, his eyes reddening with rage. "...he sang poems and praises of her beauty and stated that if we won we could do whatever we wished to do to her."



Anyone could hear the anger in Vasusena's words. But Krishna could see the deep loathing and dissatisfaction in the eyes of Radheya. He was well aware of the harsh truths about Yudhistira's kingdom.



"Keshava," Vasusena continued, his voice laden with a somber finality, "until the end of Kali Yuga and the beginning of the next Satya Yuga, women have to continually fight for their rights.



They will be enslaved by the whims of men, the whims of society, denied the chance to pursue their own futures, to learn freely, to love as they choose. They have no free will. Their free-will was stripped off on that cursed day. Their very existence will be controlled by others."



Vasusena's gaze turned mocking and almost scornful. "Imagine, Keshava, what Devi Satyabhama would do if Yudhistira dared to utter these words in her presence."



Krishna snorted inwardly. As if he needed a clarification in this matter.



Satyabhama's wrath was legendary; she would undoubtedly react with fierce retribution. With her independent spirit, his fiery wife would not hesitate to castrate anyone who dared to utter such blasphemy in her presence even for a single moment.



यद्यदाचरति श्रेष्ठस्तत्तदेवेतरो जनः |

स यत्प्रमाणं कुरुते लोकस्तदनुवर्तते ||



"Whatever action is performed by a great man, common men follow. And whatever standards he sets by exemplary acts, all the world pursues."



"Yudhistira was seen as a great King because you proclaimed him as one. And future generations will follow in his footsteps," Vasusena's voice was laden with sorrow. "Instead of a woman being the Lakshmi of the house... she'll be nothing more than a tool in the hands of her father, her husband and the men around her.



Instead of being the structure of the society, the varna vyavastha will be a point of arrogance for the fools who rest upon the laurels of their ancestors. And it will be a tool of oppression.



So, Madhava... tell me, where are humans treated better? In the Kingdom of Yudhistira or in the Kingdom of Suyodhana? At least answer this."



Krishna's lips tightened into a thin line. He did not refute Vasusena's pointed observation, the weight of the question evident in his silence. "Ask your question, Karna."



A dark amusement poured out of Vasusena's eyes. "You always have answers to every question I pose. So why are you not answering this basic question?" His voice broke with sadness. "Never mind. If you had not given the vow to stand with the Pandavas, would Suyodhana and his brothers still be branded as adharmis?"



Krishna's response was firm, almost pitiless. "Yes." His gaze was unwavering, resolute. Vasusena managed a wan smile, his expression a mix of resignation and sorrow. "Because Arjuna is Nara to my Narayana. He is the other half of my soul. Even if I had never given that promise to Sahadeva, I would still fight on the side of the Pandavas."



Vasusena's voice grew bitter. "You should have followed the Parashurama avatar's approach and simply killed us all then. It's just our karma that we are living in an era where the Vishnu avatar plays the role of a politician. Your turn, Keshava."



Krishna's eyes narrowed as he considered the weight of Vasusena's words. "Why are you asking questions you already know the answers to, Karna?"



"I'm merely following in your footsteps, Narayana. You too are doing the same," Vasusena replied with a glib smile. "Your turn, Keshava."



Krishna's demeanour shifted as he prepared to delve into a more challenging part of their exchange. "I'll return to my original question then." His voice was devoid of emotion, masking the internal struggle he faced.



This was the most difficult part for Krishna. He needed to gauge the extent of Kali's influence on Vasusena and determine how much hold this warrior had over his ripus. To do this, he had to allow Kali to influence Vasusena further, revealing the full depth of his inner turmoil.



"You did promise Parameshwara to always follow Dharma. You also said that any Dharma you missed in past lives, you'd make up for in this one. "Then why aren't you standing with your brothers, whom you have never performed your duties to in your previous lives?"



The son of the Son raised a brow. "I have missed my brotherly duties? When, pray tell, Keshava?" Vasusena's voice was sharp, the wrath in his tone unmistakable.



Krishna's eyes glinted with a mocking lilt. "You fought on the side of the Kauravas against your own brothers, Karna. You neglected your brotherly duties and stood by Suyodhana.



You are directly responsible for the deaths of Abhimanyu and Ghatotkacha. Tell me, how did you uphold your duties as a brother?" Krishna's smile was laden with scorn. "Even in this life, you are still chasing after Gandharinandana, despite everything you have done for him in your previous life."



The mention of Gandharinandana and the deaths of his kin ignited a fierce wrath in Vasusena. Krishna watched as the visage of Kali flickered at the edges of Vasusena's consciousness, trying to invade his thoughts.



"You claim I failed in my brotherly duties, Devakinandana," Vasusena's voice was a dangerous whisper, his face a mask of unsettling calmness. The only indication of his rage was the tightening of his fist, the knuckles whitening with the force of his grip.



Krishna's gaze remained steady, though a hint of sadness flickered in his heart. Karna still had yet to understand the gravity of the situation. He is still ruled by his ripus. Even though he had much more control than in his previous life... for the plans made by Neelakanta he needed more control.



The boon bestowed upon Vasusena by Parameshwara would not affect Krishna, as his divine nature rendered him immune to such enchantments. No one else could do this because Vasusena will sniff out their intentions in less than a second



"You accuse me of neglecting my brotherly duties in my quest to fulfill my role as a friend," Vasusena continued, his voice low and measured. He tilted his head slightly, eyes fixed on Krishna, as if trying to decipher the true intent behind his words.



Krishna remained outwardly calm, nodding slowly, though internally he was preparing for the next phase of his strategy. He knew the significance of what was unfolding. The trap had been set, and now he needed to see if Karna would fall into it or rise above it. Both will serve him well but he wished that Vaikartana would rise above it.



"Even when I knew that killing Yudhishthira would end the war, I never did it. Forget killing him—I never even attempted to capture him," Vasusena's eyes burned with a fierce intensity, as the influence of Kali grew stronger in his mind. His rage was palpable, a stark contrast to the self-control he usually exhibited.



"Despite knowing Bhimasena had vowed to kill my hundred friends, I promised Maharani Kunti that I would not kill Yudhishthira, Bhima, Nakula, or Sahadeva. I refrained from fighting with my full strength, bound by my oaths and principles.



Even when Bhimasena had split more innocent blood than guilty ones... I never fought at my full capacity. And by doing so, I betrayed Suyodhana in the most horrifying way," he growled, his voice echoing with deep sadness.



"You accuse me of having a hand in the deaths of Abhimanyu and Ghatotkacha," Vasusena sneered, his voice laced with anger. "Who convinced Arjuna to divert his attention to the Trigartas knowing that Dronacharya had planned for Chakravyuha?



Who urged Bhima to summon Ghatotkacha to battle—even though single heirs to kingdoms were expressly forbidden from participating lest their lines come to an end. The same maxime by which the King of Manipura was prohibited from entering Kurukshetra—at night? When it is strictly against the rules of a Dharmayudhha to commence or continue a battle past sundown? Because I certainly did not do any of those. And neither did Suyodhana.



He paused, his eyes clouded with regret. "Do I regret participating in his death? Yes, I do. We butchered him in a way no warrior deserves, let alone a child barely on the cusp of manhood.



But even knowing the weight of that guilt, I would do it again without a second thought."



The memories of that day flashed before his eyes, and his voice took on a steely edge. "Because on that day, Abhimanyu killed more than ten thousand soldiers. He killed two of my brothers. He killed Lakshmana Kumara, a person dear to my heart, and countless other children of the Kauravas."



Karna's voice grew colder as he recounted the battle. "On Guru Drona's advice, we disarmed him. But even then, he continued his attack. That's why I said the Chakravyuha was immoral. He was trapped, with no way out, unable to retreat. Too proud to surrender. On that day, he was equal to Shiva in our eyes, and like the Pandavas, we could not allow a warrior of such power to live."



Karna's expression hardened as he continued. "He killed many sons of Kauravas and his very task is to kill our children. He might be Arjuna's favorite child but to our eyes he's just another soldier trying to kill us.



Even a hen, when her chicks are threatened by an eagle, will shield them with her own body. A mere hen, which we kill to eat whenever we feel like it, will bravely face the mighty eagle to protect her young.



We are Kshatriyas who are trained in war, Keshava. What more will we do?"



"A few months before the war, all I knew of Abhimanyu was that he was the son of my most hated enemy, nothing more.

On that day,he slaughtered the children who grew up before our eyes—the children we swore to protect. His very job is to kill the children of Kauravas. Is his blood the only worthy one? Doesn't our children's lives matter?"



The death of Abhimanyu is one I will carry on my conscience for my lifetime."



Vasusena's gaze hardened the resolve in his voice unmistakable. "But will I allow you to shame me for it? No. I did my duty just as you have done.



You performed your duty in his end as I did. He who commits a crime and he who lets the crime happen silently are equally guilty. This is the first lesson my mother ever taught me and by this same universal logic, you are as culpable as I or Suyodhana."



Karna then snorted darkly and continued, "And don't even get me started on Ghatotkacha. You have no right to pin the blame of your plan on me. I killed him because of my duty. You, on the other hand, sent him off like cattle to the gallows to save your precious Arjuna from Vasavi Shakti given to me by Indradeva. Don't try to deny it. I know."



His expression hardened further. "As for my duties to the Pandavas... those ended in Kuntibhoja on the bank of the Ganga decades ago, when the one person who should have cared for me above all surrendered me to the tide."



Krishna's displeasure was palpable, even though his face remained calm and composed. The situation was far more dangerous than it had ever been before. Kali should not have power over this warrior—especially not in this life. The devastation that could be wrought if Kali controlled Vaikartana was unimaginable. Adhirathi's temper was still a weakness, one that needed to be conquered. But for now, Krishna had to break Kali's hold on him.



"And yet, you stood beside Suyodhana all your life."



"I stood by him, and yet I never performed my duties as a true friend." Just as Krishna expected, the moment he mentioned Radheya's friend, the dark influence of Kali dissipated in an instant. For Vasusena... Suyodhana is both his strength and weakness.



All the wrath that had consumed him melted away, replaced by a deep, overwhelming shame. His head bowed, and tears began to fall.



"Suyodhana gave me his friendship, and I betrayed him," Vasusena whispered, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him. "I betrayed him in so many ways that I feel ashamed of myself."



The tears fell faster as he continued, his voice thick with sorrow. "I supported Suyodhana in his conspiracies against the Pandavas. I thought I was doing it out of loyalty, not out of selfishness, save for my enmity with Arjuna. I believed my actions were selfless, aligned with my friend's wishes, to prove my loyalty."



Karna's voice wavered, filled with the pain of realization. "But a true friend would have guided him away from such evil deeds. A true friend would have stopped him from walking down a dark path."



He paused, his voice barely above a whisper. "Suyodhana made me the King of Anga so that I could challenge Arjuna. Some might see this as a bribe, and perhaps it was. He wanted an archer who could defeat Arjuna, yes. But he had already secured my loyalty."



Vasusena's tears continued to flow as he spoke, his heart laid bare. "He never needed to call this sutaputra his friend. He never needed to love me so much. He never needed to place me in his heart above all his brothers and relatives."



I supported Suyodhana in all his schemes, and at times, I even devised them.



"I knew a fair fight with the Pandavas was futile, so I suggested we crush them before the Vrishnis and Panchalas could come to their aid. It was a brilliant strategy, but was it the strategy of a true friend? No. A true friend would have urged him to seek honor, not deceit."



His eyes darkened with the memory of his most grievous mistake. "When I provoked Dushasana to strip Draupadi, I sealed the Kauravas' fate as villains beyond redemption. What kind of friend leads another into such heinous acts? I knew it was wrong, and yet I did it, driven by my own hatred."



Vasusena's fists clenched as he recalled his next betrayal. "I even encouraged Suyodhana to mock the Pandavas in their exile, driven by my own desire to see them suffer. In doing so, I dragged him into the Ghosha Yatra, where the Yakshas attacked us. When danger loomed, I fled, leaving Suyodhana at their mercy. What true friend abandons his friend in peril?"



His voice broke with sorrow as he spoke of his final betrayal. "I promised Kunti to spare all her sons except Arjuna, and I kept this secret from Suyodhana. I kept my promise at the cost of my friend's cause and his brothers' lives. What true friend lies about something so crucial in war? This act was not just betrayal—it was high treason."



Vasusena's tears fell freely now, each drop a testament to his regret. "Through it all, Suyodhana remained steadfast. He never questioned my failures, never complained. He ignored my mistakes, hoping against hope that I could change his destiny. He proved to be a better friend than I ever was to him."



His voice grew softer, filled with the weight of his self-condemnation. "In the end, it is clear to me. I, Vasusena, failed as a true friend. I let my ego, my hatred, and my ambition blind me to what Suyodhana truly needed—a friend who would guide him towards righteousness, not an enabler who would lead him further into darkness."



The tears streaming down Vasusena's face mirrored the turmoil in his heart. "You said that at the expense of performing my brotherly duties, I honored Suyodhana. But at the expense of my friendship, I honored Devi Kunti's words. I was the reason for the death of not just myself, but also our children and everyone who supported us during Kurukshetra. I betrayed my friend in ways that even he cannot comprehend."



His voice quivered as he whispered, "Suyodhana might call Guru Drona, Mahamaahim Bhishma, the traitors, but in truth, I am the actual traitor on his side. Even if I were reborn a hundred more times, I will never be able to cleanse the sin I have committed against the eldest son of Dhritarashtra."



"Even if Parameshwara and all the Gods came to change my mind... Vasusena is, and always will be, Suyodhana's friend."



Vasusena's voice grew fierce, laced with a steely resolve. "I didn't fail in my brotherly duties because I was never a brother to the Pandavas. That bond was never mine to honor.



I didn't fail as a son either. I died for the legitimate sons of my cruel mother, even though I knew it meant the death of all my friends... I honored her wishes.



Even when my own sons were slaughtered by those Pandu Putras, I held back. I didn't unleash my full strength upon them and vanquish them. I owe nothing to the Pandavas; I fulfilled my duties to them in my previous life."



His eyes burned with the intensity of his convictions as he continued. "What I never fulfilled was my duties as a friend. And I promised Parameshwara that I would try to fulfill all the duties I failed to perform in my previous life. So I'll fulfill the duties of a true friend in this life."



Krishna watched him closely, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, though it did not reach his eyes. 'Foolish little child,' he thought. Yet, he knew he had achieved what he came for.



Without another word, Krishna turned and left the place, his next destination clear in his mind—the Palace of Hastinapur.





****************************************************************************************



"Devi Gandhari..." The deep, respectful voice of the door guard resonated through the chamber, drawing her attention just as she finished her prayers. "Mahaamahim Bhishma, along with Devi Kunti, Prime Minister Vidura, Kulguru Kripa, and a young, unknown child, have come to visit you today."



Gandhari's brow furrowed slightly at the unexpected assembly. "Did they mention why they are here, Guha?" she inquired, a hint of irritation colouring her tone.



"The child claimed to be a cousin of the Pandavas and expressed a desire to see you," Guha replied respectfully. "When I asked them to state their purpose, the child simply requested that his name be conveyed to you, saying you would allow him entry."



Gandhari's irritation dissolved, replaced by a dawning realization that brought a smile to her lips. She didn't need to hear the name to know who it was. "It's Vasudeva Krishna, isn't it, Guha?" she asked, her voice softening with affection. The guard nodded in confirmation.



Despite what Vasusena had said about this avatar branding her children as adharmis, Gandhari felt no anger in her heart. He was Vishwadhipathi himself, the Lord of the Universe. She believed that unless her children had truly strayed far from the path of righteousness, he would not have opposed them. Perhaps now, with him here, she could finally ask how to guide her children back to the path of Dharma.



"Only let the child come in, Guha," she instructed with a calm authority. Then, turning to her maid, she added with a touch of warmth, "Sugandha, please order kheer to be prepared. Vasusena mentioned that Sri Krishna has a fondness for sweets made with milk. I hope it pleases him."



The guard shifted uneasily, his discomfort evident. When Gandhari didn't hear his retreating footsteps, she asked, her voice sharp with curiosity, "Is there an issue, Guha?"



"The child said he would not enter without those accompanying him, Devi Gandhari," Guha replied, his tone tinged with uncertainty. "He insisted that either you welcome him and everyone with him, or you turn them all away together."



Gandhari was at a loss for words. She had vowed never to associate with her husband's kin again, a resolution born out of deep pain and disillusionment. Once the princes had completed their education and Yudhistira ascended the throne of Hastinapur, she planned to remain no more than five years, enough time for her children to secure their positions through their own merit and strength.



But how could she possibly turn away Anandadagara—Sree Maha Vishnu himself—from her home? The mere thought was inconceivable to her. Torn between her anger and her devotion, she reluctantly instructed Guha to let them all in.



As they approached, Gandhari's ears caught the sound of unfamiliar footsteps—light, yet carrying an unmistakable weight. The steps were flanked by the familiar, heavier treads of her kin.



What she could not see, but the servants around her surely did, were the astonished faces of those accompanying the young boy.





**************

(Bhishma's POV)



Vasudeva Krishna... It still boggles their minds that a child of Devaki and Vasudeva has survived. They thought him to be a fraudster, but the child, wielding the power of Maya, revealed the truth of his birth, dispelling all doubts with a vision of what actually transpired on that fateful night.



Even then, scepticism lingered among them. His presence was oddly comforting, yet the question gnawed at them: Why was he here? Was it to seek help in overthrowing his tyrant uncle, Kamsa?



"Uncle Kamsa is destined to die by my hands in four years, Mahaamahim Bhishma," the boy declared, his eyes blazing with untold wrath. Bhishma jolted, startled—he had never spoken his question aloud. "I will kill him myself, beheading him with these hands, and my brother Rama will slay his eight brothers. We need no assistance from anyone else. The two of us are more than enough."



"So why have you come here, Krishna?" Kunti asked, her voice gentle, but laced with curiosity and concern attempting to soothe the wrath that appeared in the face of the young child.



"I'm here to help you and your family, aunt Kunti," he replied after calming himself down.



"Help us how, Vasudeva?"



"Queen Gandhari and King Dhritarashtra have shut their doors and their hearts against you," the boy spoke softly, yet his words cut through the air like a blade. Bhishma's hand instinctively reached for his sword. No one beyond the palace walls should have known this. The kingdom's secrets had been tightly guarded, and any spies who tried to leak such sensitive information had been swiftly eliminated.



"How did you know?" Bhishma growled, his voice filled with suspicion and barely controlled anger.



But the boy merely smiled, a serene expression that disarmed Bhishma in an instant. It was an otherworldly smile, one that seemed to dissolve all tension, making Bhishma's anger dissipate like mist in the morning sun. Even Kunti, who had remained wary, found herself softening at the sight of it.



Something about this child—no, about Krishna—was deeply unsettling, yet profoundly calming. It was as if his very presence could command peace in the most tumultuous hearts.



"Anyway... today, I'll gain you entry into the room of Devi Gandhari."



The claim was audacious, almost reckless. It had been nearly three months since the children left for Gurukul, and Devi Gandhari had not permitted anyone into her private chambers unless it was strictly necessary for matters concerning the kingdom.



He recalled Dronacharya's words about that fateful night after Yudhisthira's coronation, where Rishiputra had secretly followed Dhritarashtra's eldest son. The conversation between Suyodhana and that infernal Suta had left a lingering unease in Rishiputra's heart and he told him what transpired on that night.



Despite knowing that Vasusena's presence was the catalyst for the hatred festering within Suyodhana, Bhishma could not bring himself to accuse, let alone kill, the one responsible.



The poison whispered into Suyodhana's ears remained a mystery to them all. Dronacharya, wise and cautious, had advised against any rash actions, and though it pained him, Bhishma had reluctantly agreed.



Because Vasusena was the most intelligent and dangerous adversary he had seen since Gandharraj Shakuni. He was a child of mellifluous words and a dark heart filled with poison. Without knowing the nature of the poison pumped into the heart of Suyodhana... they would be going in blind. And the last time he dared to accuse Vasusenawithout concrete proof... that infernal suta had humiliated him in front of the entire assembly.



"You might think this is a bit preposterous, Mahaamahim," Krishna's eyes bored into Bhishma's very soul. "Suyodhana shared only half of his conversation with Vasusena. That alone was enough to harden the Queen's heart against you."



Bhishma's mind raced—how could this child know such things? And if only half of that vile exchange was revealed, how much more venomous could the other half have been? What dark magic had Vasusena poured into Suyodhana's heart?



Krishna sighed, a sound both weary and resolute. "Anyway... Devi Gandhari will never turn me away," he stated confidently, almost as if he were speaking of a foregone conclusion. "It is time for her, and for all of you, to know who Vasusena truly is."



Despite the wildness of Krishna's claims, Bhishma felt an inexplicable trust growing in his heart. There was something about this child that commanded belief, even in the face of the impossible. Without hesitation, Bhishma summoned Kulguru Kripa and his nephew Vidura to accompany them to Gandhari's chambers.



When Krishna calmly stated to the doorkeeper that Devi Gandhari would allow him entry and insisted that all should be permitted inside, the doorkeeper's weary eyes betrayed his disbelief. Yet, obediently, he relayed the request.



Everyone, including Bhishma, fully expected to be turned away.



To the shock of all, the doorkeeper returned with Gandhari's message: they were all allowed to enter.



Gandhari approached them with a solemn grace, folding her hands in respect. To everyone's astonishment, she began to kneel—not before Bhishma, Kripa, or Vidura, but before the young boy, Krishna. However, before she could complete the gesture, Krishna gently stopped her.



"Elders should never fall at the feet of younger people, Devi Gandhari," the boy's voice rang out, melodious yet firm.



"Before the Vishwadhipathi... everyone is a child, Narayana." Gandhari's words sent chills through the hearts of those present.



"Vishwadhipathi?" Kunti breathed out in awe, her eyes wide with a sudden realization.



"Vasudeva Krishna is the present avatar of Narayana in this Yuga, Rajamata Kunti," Gandhari explained in a cold, neutral tone. Krishna merely smiled at her words, his expression serene.



"You are the current incarnation of Narayana?" Vidura asked, joy and reverence filling his heart as he folded his hands before the boy. "Our kingdom is blessed by your arrival."



The revelation struck Bhishma like a thunderbolt. 'So that's how he knew all the secrets not told to anyone. Narayana was born in the Yadava kingdom this time.' The pieces fell into place in his mind. Kamsa is a tyrant so powerful that even the Devas hesitated to confront him. Especially with Jarasandha backing the man with his full might. And an adharmi that powerful could only be vanquished by an avatar of Narayana himself.



The son of Ganga, overwhelmed by this realization, began to fold his hands in respect, and Kunti and Kripa followed suit. Yet, one question lingered: how did Gandhari, of all people, recognize Krishna as the incarnation of Narayana?



Yuyutsu's mother, who also served as Gandhari's maid, guided them towards a table where sweets made from milk had been lovingly prepared. Gandhari's face, which had grown melancholic in their presence, now radiated warmth and happiness in the company of Krishna.



"You haven't greeted the others, Devi Gandhari," Krishna spoke in a slightly chiding tone, his eyes gentle but firm.



Gandhari's lips thinned at the subtle reprimand, but she complied, offering respectful greetings to the others. Despite the outward civility, the tension in the room was palpable, suffocating in its intensity. Each person felt the weight of unspoken truths and unresolved conflicts, yet in the presence of the divine child, they found themselves momentarily united in reverence and awe.



Just a few months before... Gandhari had loved them all deeply. Their advice had been indispensable to the young queen, who saw them as pillars of wisdom and strength. She had loved everyone equally, her heart open and generous.



Towards him, she had been like a daughter, trusting him as one would a father, seeking his counsel in times of uncertainty. But now, that heart full of love had turned into one filled with hatred, poisoned by the words of Vasusena. For that, Bhishma swore to himself, Adhirathi would pay dearly for his act.



Trivikrama himself had granted them a chance to make amends with Gandhari. A second chance for the union of the family was given by Lakshmipathi. Yet, as they stood in her presence, the weight of their actions hung heavily in the air and their usually eloquent tongue refused to move easily. The silence between them was palpable, thick with unspoken regret and sorrow.



Vidura, usually composed and articulate, struggled to find his voice, the enormity of his actions pressing down on him like a physical burden. He, too, had felt the sting of Gandhari's changed heart, a heart that once beat with kindness and love but now throbbed with anger and betrayal.



The room, once a place of warmth and familial connection, now felt cold and distant. The bonds that had once held them together were frayed, nearly broken, by the lies, schemes, and betrayals that had been sown by that rakshasa that should have been drowned at birth.



Each of them was acutely aware of the rift that had formed, and though Krishna's presence brought a glimmer of hope, the path to healing was uncertain and fraught with the heavy weight of their past actions.



Bhishma, Vidura, Kunti, and Kripa stood there, hearts heavy, knowing that the opportunity before them was one granted by the divine itself. They will not let this opportunity slip their hands. And mending of the bonds will begin by asking forgiveness from the victim.



And though they may not know the precise words that had been whispered in her ears, they had surmised enough from her subsequent actions to know what they must pay apologies for.



"Devi Gandhari," he began, his voice trembling with a depth of emotion rarely seen from him. "I stand before you, not as the great protector of our clan, but as a man crushed beneath the weight of his own failures. For too long, I harbored a disdain so deep for your sons that it blinded me to the truth—they were not the destroyers of our lineage, but children, lost and in need."



His voice broke as he continued, tears glistening in his eyes. "My indifference, my silence... they allowed injustices to thrive like a poison in the roots of this family. I failed them, Devi. I failed them as I failed you. I ask not for forgiveness, for I know I am unworthy of it. But I must confess, for the burden has become too heavy to bear alone."



Gandhari's face remained a stoic mask, carved from stone, showing no trace of the storm raging within. Yet, in that unyielding silence, Bhishma saw the reflection of his guilt—the pain he had caused had hollowed her out, leaving her a shell of the vibrant woman she once was.



Vidura, who had always believed to be the embodiment of fairness was devastated by his actions and his face showed it. He stepped forward, his voice trembling with sorrow. "Devi," he began, his tone thick with regret, "I have long prided myself on my adherence to dharma, to fairness. Yet, I see now that I was blinded by my own biases, my own prejudices against your sons. I failed to see them for who they truly were—innocent children, yearning for guidance and love."



He paused, struggling to contain the tears welling up in his eyes. "The accusations against me, painful as they were, have forced me to confront a truth I was too proud to see. My counsel was tainted, and my judgment was clouded. I was not the impartial guide I thought myself to be."



The tension in the room grew thick, an oppressive force that seemed to choke the very air from their lungs. Each word, each admission, hung heavy in the silence, pressing down on them with the weight of their collective guilt.



Bhishma spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the full force of his regret. "I believed myself a guardian of justice, yet I failed in the most sacred of duties—to protect, to guide. My inaction, my blindness, contributed to the suffering of your family, Devi. And for that, I am deeply remorseful."



His voice trembled as he took a deep breath, struggling to maintain his composure. "I do not seek absolution for myself. I seek only to acknowledge the pain I have caused, and to express my deepest regret for the role I played in the suffering of your family."



Vidura, his head bowed low, struggled to find his voice through the haze of guilt that clouded his mind. "Sister," he began, his tone choked with emotion, "words alone cannot mend what has been broken. But I offer them nonetheless, from the deepest recesses of my heart. I see now the flaws in my character, the biases that clouded my judgment. I stand before you, humbled, seeking forgiveness not for myself, but for the pain I have caused you and your sons."



The silence that followed was deafening, each man standing in the shadow of their confessions, the weight of their guilt pressing down on them like a heavy shroud. The room, once a sanctuary, now felt like a tomb, echoing with the unspoken pain and regret that lingered in the air.



Gandhari's blindfold may have concealed her eyes, but the deep lines of sorrow etched across her face were impossible to miss. The air in the room was heavy with her pain—the pain of a mother who had seen her children suffer, the torment of a queen who had watched her family shatter into pieces.



Bhishma's voice trembled as it pierced the stillness once more, softer this time, burdened with a sorrow that had taken root deep within his heart. "Every memory of your sons, Devi Gandhari, reignites the fire of my inaction within me. I should have been their mentor, their shield. Instead, I stood by, a silent witness to their anguish. In failing them, I failed you."



Tears welled up in Vidura's eyes as he found his voice again, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him like an unyielding stone. "Devi, your sons were deserving of so much more. They needed guidance, fairness, and compassion. But what they received was judgment, neglect, and bias. My soul aches with the realization of how grievously I wronged them."



Gandhari remained unmoved, her silence a loud testament to her inner turmoil. She stood there, absorbing the confessions of these men—men who had once wielded such power and influence but had fallen woefully short when it mattered most. Yet, she offered no reply, no acknowledgment of their heartfelt admissions. Kunti, Kripa, and Vidura exchanged helpless glances, their desperate pleas failing to penetrate the armor of Gandhari's sorrow. Bhishma, feeling the sting of rejection, turned his gaze towards Krishna, silently pleading for guidance.



Krishna's voice, usually so gentle, carried an edge of unusual severity as he finally spoke. "Devi Gandhari," he began, "your heart has always yearned for your children to walk the path of dharma. Yet now, you stand at a crossroads, refusing to walk that path yourself."



The words hung in the air like a challenge, cutting through the tension. Gandhari's voice, when it came, was soft, almost a whisper. "You know why I struggle to forgive them, Sri Krishna. You know the pain that fuels my hesitation."



Krishna's gaze did not waver. "You allowed the words of an outsider to drive a wedge between you and your family, Devi Gandhari. Instead of healing the wounds, you've let them fester."



Gandhari's tone was laden with sadness as she responded. "Tell me, Keshava... tell me if my son and Vasusena were wrong."



Krishna's eyes softened, yet his voice remained firm. "And you place your trust in the words of Adhirathi?"



"Am I wrong to trust him?" Gandhari's question hung in the air, laden with the weight of her challenge.



The hall fell into a heavy silence, no one daring to speak. Krishna looked at the Queen of Hastinapur with a gaze full of pity, knowing that the answers she sought were not simple.



"Tell me, Devi Gandhari," Krishna began softly, his tone laden with an enigmatic gravity, "what do you know about Vasusena?"



Bhishma observed his own confusion on the face of Gandhari. What on earth is Vishnu saying?



"Let me clarify," Krishna continued, his voice unwavering, "Beyond the words he has spoken about himself, what deeper understanding do you have of Vasusena?"



Gandhari fell silent, the question weighing heavily on her. She struggled to find a meaningful response, the vast expanse of her knowledge seeming inadequate in the face of Krishna's inquiry.



With a subtle wave of his hand, Krishna summoned a screen of mist that shimmered before them, ethereal and mysterious.



"Please give me your hand, Devi Gandhari," Krishna requested. Gandhari, her heart pounding with curiosity and anticipation, extended her hand. Krishna took it with a serene smile. "Let me reveal to you the moments that have defined Vasusena's life. These are the memories that forged him into the man he is."



As Krishna spoke, the mist began to swirl and coalesce, creating a vivid tapestry of scenes from Vasusena's life. The images that emerged were raw and powerful, showcasing the experiences and trials that had shaped him. The screen of mist illuminated the path that Vasusena had walked, each scene a testament to the trials and tribulations he had faced.



"This," Krishna said softly, "is the essence of Vasusena—the boy beyond the surface, the journey that forged the iron into a sword in this life."



***************************************************

The air hung heavy with dread, thick enough to choke on, as the crowd murmured in hushed tones, their whispers swallowed by the sinister hiss of the cauldron where molten lead simmered, hungry and ominous. Vasusena stood frozen, his skin drained of colour, as if the very life within him quivered beneath the weight of impending horror.



A shadow loomed as the executioner stepped forward, his presence a grim herald of doom. Nearby, Adhiratha and Radha sobbed with desperation that threatened to tear the heavens apart.



Adhiratha, always so composed, now trembled like a broken reed. His voice cracked as he cried out, "Mahamahim, I beg of you! He is but a boy—a seeker of knowledge, nothing more! Please, show mercy!" His words were drenched in despair, but they shattered upon the cold, indifferent walls of fate. Beside him, Vasusena stood lifeless, his spirit crumbling as his father's pleas went unanswered.



The guards, statues of ruthless obedience, held Adhiratha and Radha back with grips like steel, silencing their struggles. The executioner, faceless beneath the veil of death's duty, advanced with the ladle of molten lead—a weapon of cruelty. Vasusena's vision blurred with unshed tears, his heart thundering in his chest as the scalding metal was brought closer to Swarnajeet's trembling lips.



The moment the molten lead touched Swarnajeet's mouth, a scream ripped through the air—a shriek so raw, so agonizing, it seemed to tear the very fabric of the earth. The crowd recoiled as the boy's body convulsed, wracked with torment beyond comprehension. His scream resonated in the hearts of the spectators, carving a wound into their souls. But on the throne, Bhishma sat unmoved, his gaze a cold, distant abyss, as if the suffering before him were nothing more than a fleeting shadow in the grand scheme of his relentless will.



Swarnajeet's convulsions slowed, and the sound of agony faded to a chilling silence as his body finally slumped, lifeless. It was then that Vasusena's knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground.



The scream that had been trapped within Vasusena broke free—a soundless cry that rattled his very core. Fury surged through his veins, raw and primal. His vision blurred red as he looked up at Bhishma, his teeth bared in a feral snarl, eyes blazing with hatred so fierce it could have set the world ablaze. His gaze, burning like the sun, promised retribution that even the gods would tremble before.



************************************************************

Bhishma, who had once issued the punishment to the child with the cold detachment of duty, had long forgotten the gravity of his own decree. Yet, as time passed, a nagging regret gnawed at him, a familiar but uncomfortable burden he buried deep beneath the armor of his unwavering sense of duty—just as he had done countless times before.



But it was a well-known tragedy. Vasusena's brother's death was shown as a warning to suta children that age and while important everyone knew about it. Krishna said that there are things about Vasusena no one knew.



But the death of Adhirathi Swarnajeet had been the talk of Hastinapur. It was shown as a warning to suta children not to cross their boundaries. So why would Krishna choose to show this particular scene?



Krishna's voice was soft, as he addressed Gandhari. "You are the only one outside his parents who knew what Vasusena's eyes are capable of, Devi Gandhari. He chose to tell only you outside his family who his teacher is and what his boons are." The confusion in his gaze mirrored that of everyone else in the room. What could Keshava possibly mean?



Krishna then unveiled the secret, one that sent a ripple of unease through the Sabha. "He claimed that after his training, his eyes could see the past, present, and future of any person he looked upon, if he so wished." Bhishma's heart plummeted at those words. The atmosphere in the Sabha grew tense, the very air crackling with fear and uncertainty. "Isn't that right, Devi Gandhari?"



Bhishma's mind raced. What had Vasusena done during his absence from Hastinapur? Such power, in the hands of an adharmi as cunning as Vasusena, was terrifying.



Gandhari's voice, calm but weighted with knowledge, broke through the tension. "Yes," she confirmed.



"He lied, Devi Gandhari." Krishna replied.



A collective sigh of relief swept through the Sabha, the men exhaling as though they had been spared from some great calamity. The thought of facing an enemy with such an ability was unthinkable—even Vishnu himself would need to take up arms against such a foe. But fortunately, it wasn't true... or so they thought.



"Even before he began training in the army of Hastinapur," Krishna continued, "Vasusena already knew what Niyathi holds for him."



And with that, the relief was shattered, replaced by a suffocating dread.



"This is an outrageous claim,my lord," Bhishma blurted out, fear creeping into his voice. "If that's true... he would have prevented the death of his brother."



Krishna's lips thinned with barely concealed irritation, and Bhishma felt a wave of shame wash over him. "The reason why I'm showing you this memory," Krishna explained, his voice cutting through the protests like a blade, "is because this was the first time, by Shiva's grace, that Vasusena saw the entire path Niyathi had written for him and everyone else. The reason he was frozen in place was because, at that moment, he lived every second of his life—from then until his death."



The color drained from Vidhur's and Kripa's faces, and Bhishma knew that his own must mirror theirs. Kunti appeared lost, not fully grasping the significance, while Gandhari's expression was one of deep, troubled puzzlement.



Gandhari's lips curved into a faint smile, a hum escaping her as she processed Krishna's words. "Oh..." she murmured thoughtfully. "So, with the blessing of his teacher, this gift became so enhanced that he could wield it at will. But even if that's true... he merely concealed the full truth. It changes nothing for me."



Kripa, however, was not as easily swayed. His brow furrowed in surprise as he spoke, "Wait a moment... What teacher could possibly bless Vasusena with the power to see the future at will? Divine knowledge of such magnitude... to impart that to a suta is strictly forbidden by the varna vyavastha. So, who, then, is the teacher of Vasusena?"



Krishna's smile deepened, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Ah... Tell us, Devi Gandhari," he said, his voice light but pointed, "who is Vasusena's teacher in this life? Can you offer him praise without speaking the name of his teacher, Devi Gandhari?"



The air grew still as Krishna's words hung in the room, heavy with implication. All eyes turned toward Gandhari, awaiting her response.



सः प्रजापतिषु प्रथमः सर्वशक्तीनां प्रभुः च।

पृथिव्याः आकाशस्य स्वर्गस्य च देवः सः।

सः सर्वलोकानां नाथः देवः च ईशानः सः वरदः।

सः सर्वस्य आदिः विश्वस्य प्रभुः अस्ति।

(The first among the Prajapatis who is the sovereign of all energies and the force that fuels existence. The one who commands the earth, the sky, and the vastness of heaven, reigning supreme over all realms. He is Ishana, the divine granter of boons, the primal source of all creation, the eternal lord of the universe.)



Kunti's voice, filled with awe, broke the silence. "Ishana... Ishana is the other name for Maheshwara." she whispered. "Maheshwara is the teacher of Vasusena."



A collective gasp filled the room, and the men in the Sabha turned as one toward Krishna, their eyes pleading for him to deny it, to say that this was all some cruel misunderstanding. But their hopes were dashed as Krishna merely smiled at Gandhari, offering no such comfort.



"He told you the truth," Krishna said with a gentle smile. "But do you know why Vasusena sought to learn under Shiva? Do you know what drove him to begin his tapasya in pursuit of Maheshwara's teachings?"



"No, Krishna," Gandhari admitted softly, her voice tinged with uncertainty.



Krishna's gaze softened. "Then see for yourself," he said, waving his hand. The mist in the air shifted once more, swirling and coalescing into another vision, revealing the hidden reason behind Vasusena's intense tapasya, the path that led him to the feet of Maheshwara himself.



*************************************************



In the dimming light of the sacred grove, young Vasusena stood out, his small figure framed by the encroaching shadows of the trees. The quiet hum of nature was a cruel contrast to the agony about to unfold. He was only eleven—a child with cherubic features, yet his eyes held a wisdom far beyond his years, betraying an old soul burdened with suffering.



With trembling hands, Vasusena pulled a gleaming knife from his waistband. The blade was nearly as long as his forearm, it's cold edge glinting ominously in the fading light. Without hesitation, he raised the blade and made a motion to plunge it into his own flesh.



*****************************************



Suddenly, a brilliant glow enveloped him, and a golden armor, adorned with the radiant motifs of the sun, materialized around his tiny body, shielding him from the blade. The onlookers gasped, stunned by the miraculous appearance of the armor. But their shock quickly turned to horror as Vasusena, undeterred by the protection, began searching for gaps in the divine armor.



With terrifying precision, the boy started to flay his own flesh where the armor could not reach. The sight was too much to bear; bile rose in the throats of those watching as the gruesome scene played out before them. Blood stained the earth as Vasusena cut deeper, his tiny frame convulsing under the self-inflicted pain.



However, amidst the horror, none of the onlookers, save for Krishna, noticed Maharani Kunti's sudden pallor. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes widened in recognition. The golden armor... the divine protection... it could only mean one thing. The realization crashed over her like a tidal wave.



'Vasusena is my child,' she thought in a hysterical whirlwind of emotions. It all made sense now—why Krishna had insisted she join him in Gandhari's room, why he wanted her to see these memories unfold.



As the scene continued to unfold before her, Kunti's heart shattered into a thousand pieces, torn between the maternal instinct to protect her son and the unbearable knowledge of the suffering he had already endured.



**********************************



As Vasusena began to remove his armor, the scene took on a disturbing quality. The golden pieces, seemingly fused to his skin, did not come off easily. With each piece he pried away, a sickening sound accompanied the act, a mingling of metal and flesh parting ways.



All of them could see the boy's skin tearing, the delicate tissue splitting under the force required to remove the divine protection. Blood welled up from the wounds, starkly crimson against the dusky light, staining the grass at his feet.



The armor, blessed as it was, had become a second skin, intertwined with his very being. As Vasusena struggled, a faint, almost inaudible whimper escaped his lips. It was the only thing that betrayed the pain Vasusena felt.



****************



All of them watched in horrified fascination as Vasusena's hands, shaking but determined, continued their task. The boy's expression was one of grim resolve, his young face set with an intensity far beyond his years.



Each piece of armor, as it was removed, revealed more of the tender, raw flesh beneath. The divine protection had not merely rested upon him; it had grown into him, becoming a part of him. Now, as it was peeled away, it left behind patches of skin torn and bloodied, the wounds deep and seeping. The ground beneath him was flecked with droplets of blood, the only sound in the air the occasional sharp intake of breath as Vasusena suppressed cries of pain.



The final piece, a breastplate that had shielded his heart, was the hardest to remove. Vasusena's small hands struggled with it, and when it finally gave way, a guttural gasp escaped him. The observer saw the raw, exposed skin, the fresh, open wounds that covered his chest. The boy's breathing was labored, his small body trembling from the ordeal. The armor, now discarded, lay at his feet, its golden hue tainted with blood, a stark reminder of the cost of what he wished to gain.



*********************************************



Vasusena stood there, panting, the cool evening air now biting against his exposed, wounded skin. His chest rose and fell with the effort of breathing, each inhaling a struggle against the pain. They could see the streaks of blood running down his torso, mingling with the dirt and sweat, painting a grim picture of suffering and resilience.



Then a chant poured out from his lips.

जय हनुमान ज्ञान-गुन-सागर ।

जय कपीस तिहुँ लोक उजागर ॥ १ ॥...



First, he fell on his knees, his entire body painting his surroundings with his blood. His blood formed a pool at his feet. Slowly Radheya collapsed into the mud yet his fervent chanting didn't stop.

*******************************

Vasusena is praising Anjaniputra even in his condition. Tears unconsciously appeared in the eyes of everyone who watched the gruesome scene. Even when he started to drown in his own blood... Vasusena didn't stop. What kind of resilience did that boy have? What was he fighting for?



"In less than one month of his tapasya, Bajrangbali appeared in front of him."



"Less than a month, Krishna?" Vidhur asked in shock.



"The armour and the earrings on his body protect him from death or anything that harms him," Krishna spoke in a grave tone. "Made with amrita...it is impenetrable by any Astra in the universe. Vasusena gave it up for his wish and with your own eyes, you could see the cost he is willing to pay. So in less than a month, Vasusena's penance brought Amit Vikram to him."



**************************************************



In less than one month of his fervent chants, Amitvikram manifested before him in all his divine majesty.



Standing before him was Hanuman, whose imposing figure exuded divine strength and robustness. His skin glowed the color of burnished copper, reflecting his fiery dedication and celestial origins. Muscles flowed under his skin like rivers of power, each movement demonstrating his exceptional physical strength and agility.



His face, framed by a thick mane of dark hair, bore deep-set tawny eyes that shone with wisdom and compassion. A vermilion tilak on his forehead marked his spiritual mastery and devotion. Draped in a simple saffron cloth, Bajrangbali managed to radiate humility despite his formidable appearance. His tail swayed over his head in lazy patterns, signalled his readiness and perpetual vigilance. Adorning his ears were earrings crafted from an amalgamation of gold, silver, iron, copper, and tin.



With a gesture of deep respect, Vasusena bowed before him. In a voice filled with kindness, the companion of Sri Rama prompted him to request a boon.



"I seek the knowledge of the Brahmastra—the method to wield it and the technique to recall it. I ask for this knowledge to be used for just one hour. In exchange, I request you to take these armor and earrings and return them to my father," Vasusena stated earnestly.



*****************************



Gandhari's voice was laced with uncertainty as she asked, "His father?"



Krishna's expression hardened, and his response was gentle yet firm. "Vasusena was not the biological son of Adhiratha, Devi Gandhari. He was adopted. His true father is someone else.



However, Vasusena made it clear that I am not to reveal that secret unless absolutely necessary. His deepest wish is for the world to always know Adhiratha as his father."



Kunti's heart pounded against her chest as the truth settled within her. Vasusena—her firstborn—knew the secret of his birth. A fierce battle raged within her; love for her child intertwined with a rising fear for her honor, causing her breath to quicken as emotions overwhelmed her.



Krishna, sensing the tension in the room, addressed Gandhari in a solemn tone. "Devi Gandhari, before I reveal the next part of Vasusena's journey, understand this: all that you see here is the truth. You may even question Vasusena yourself, and he will not lie to you."





***********************************************



Vasusena drew the string of his bow taut, the Brahmastra humming with divine power as he released it toward the palace with unerring precision. The air crackled with energy, the weapon a brilliant streak of light cutting through the darkening sky.



As Gandharraj Shakuni approached his sister's chamber, the oppressive shadows around him were suddenly dispelled by an overwhelming flash of radiance. He barely had time to turn and glimpse the source before the Brahmastra, unleashed by Vasusena, struck him with cataclysmic force. In an instant, his body disintegrated, vaporized by the power of the celestial weapon, leaving only his head—a gruesome remnant of the man he had once been.



The severed head fell at the feet of Queen Gandhari with a sickening finality.

**************************



And then, from the depths of her soul, a scream ripped forth. It was a sound of raw agony, an echo of the pain Vasusena himself had once felt when he witnessed the horrific death of his own brother.



She still remembered the day. One moment they had been laughing, reminiscing their childhood days of mischief, and the next, there had been a blinding flash, scalding in its intensity–so much so that Gandhari had instinctively covered her eyes, even blindfolded as they were. And then, a terrible, jarring silence. Gandhari had shivered at the sudden chill after the momentary scorching warmth and hesitantly called out to her brother. She had received no answer.

It was Sugandha who had explained to her—in gentle murmurs—what had happened. She had wept inconsolably and demanded to be taken to him. She had been refused (there had been too much blood and the fatal wound hadn't been a clean one. Shakuni's body had to undergo extensive cleansing to be readied for the funeral).

And now.... seeing him die... it reopened the unhealed scars of his death.



***************************************

However, only pity was visible in the eyes of the devout follower of Rama. "May I inquire why you gaze upon me with such pity, Pavanaputra?" Vasusena asked softly.



"You are a mere mortal attempting to defy destiny, Vasusena," Anjaniputra responded gently. "Your intentions are for your brother's sake. Nonetheless, your efforts, Vasusena, are ultimately in vain. Niyathi is immutable."



Vasusena, suppressing his burgeoning anger, stared intently at the most formidable of Vanaras. "With no Gandharaj to corrupt his thoughts, I have already altered Niyathi of my brother, Uddhikraman."



"Reflect on these ancient words, Vasusena: 'Brahma rasina aa raatanu aa Brahmane cherupaledu,' and 'Shivuni agnya lenidhe cheemaina kuttadu,'" the deity stated, his eyes filled with pity as he vanished from sight.



(The first adage translates to "Once Brahma writes someone's fate, even he cannot alter it." The second means "Without Shiva's command, not even an ant can bite.")



****************************

Gandhari's heart-wrenching wail echoed through the hall, piercing the hearts of all who heard it. "Vasusena was the one who killed my brother, Krishna? Why? Why did he do that?"



Krishna's expression darkened, his voice heavy with sorrow as he replied, "Because of your brother's actions, Vasusena will lose the person he loves most in this world.



He will lose his entire family due to the schemes and machinations of Gandharraj Shakuni. Vasusena loved one person above all else. In his own words, there are very few sins he wouldn't commit for the happiness of that brother."



Gandhari collapsed to the floor, her body trembling with grief, and Bhishma could not fault her.



The revelation weighed heavily on his own heart. What kind of will did that suta possess? He flayed himself, endured unimaginable torture, and surrendered his divine protection—all in a desperate bid to alter the fate of his beloved brother. The sheer determination of that boy sent a shiver through Bhishma's very soul.



Gandhari's voice quivered as she cried out, "Is this the kind of person I entrusted with my Suyodhana's future?" Kunti knelt beside her, gently rubbing her shoulders in an attempt to console her.



And now, he had committed the ultimate sin: the unlawful killing of Shakuni. He thought savagely.



For the first time since entering the hall, Bhishma allowed a small smile to touch his lips. Vasusena, who had always managed to evade punishment with his deep knowledge of law, was finally caught. The sin of killing Gandharraj Shakuni was undeniable, and there would be no loophole for him to escape this time.



With a feeling of a grim satisfaction, Bhishma addressed Gandhari. "I'll order the soldiers to detain him, Putri Gandhari," he stated solemnly, though he struggled to conceal the glee in his heart.



But before he could act, Krishna's voice cut through the air, sharp as a blade. "On what accusations, Devaratha Bhishma?"



Bhishma blinked in surprise, caught off guard by the question. "For the murder of Gandharraj Shakuni... I'm ordering the arrest of Vasusena, Krishna."



Krishna exhaled, his irritation evident. "Have you forgotten the Nyaya Shastra, Devaratha? No child should be held accountable for actions committed before the age of three and ten years. Vasusena was only one and ten years old when he killed Gandharraj Shakuni. By law, he is innocent."



Gandhari's voice shook with wrath. "So the murderer of my brother will go scot-free, Krishna?"



Krishna's gaze softened, but his tone remained firm. "Unfortunately, yes, Devi Gandhari. By the law, he cannot be held accountable for the actions of his childhood."



Gandhari's voice was icy, her eyes filled with a mix of hurt and anger. "He promised me that he would always keep Suyodhana on the path of dharma. Was that promise true, or was it a lie?"



Krishna's gaze softened as he prepared to reveal the trap he set for Vasusena. "Listen to Vasusena's own words, spoken after all that has transpired. I will show you the Vasusena who confronted his choices and his failures. This is our conversation after everything had happened."



*********************************



"And yet you stood beside Suyodhana all your life." He smiled with mockery on his face.

"

I stood by him and yet I have never performed my duties as a true friend."



"Suyodhana gave me his friendship, and I betrayed him," Vasusena whispered, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him. "I betrayed him in so many ways that I feel ashamed of myself."



The tears fell faster as he continued, his voice thick with sorrow. "I supported Suyodhana in his conspiracies against the Pandavas. I thought I was doing it out of loyalty, not out of selfishness, save for my enmity with Arjuna. I believed my actions were selfless, aligned with my friend's wishes, to prove my loyalty."



"But a true friend would have guided him away from such evil deeds. A true friend would have stopped him from walking down a dark path."



He paused, his voice barely above a whisper. "Suyodhana made me the King of Anga so that I could challenge Arjuna. Some might see this as a bribe, and perhaps it was. He wanted an archer who could defeat Arjuna, yes. But he had already secured my loyalty."



Vasusena's tears continued to flow as he spoke, his heart laid bare. "He never needed to call this sutaputra his friend. He never needed to love me so much. He never needed to place me in his heart above all his brothers and relatives."



I supported Suyodhana in all his schemes, and at times, I even devised them.



"I knew a fair fight with the Pandavas was futile, so I suggested we crush them before the Vrishnis and Panchalas could come to their aid. It was a brilliant strategy, but was it the strategy of a true friend? No. A true friend would have urged him to seek honor, not deceit."



I even encouraged Suyodhana to mock the Pandavas in their exile, driven by my own desire to see them suffer. In doing so, I dragged him into the Ghosha Yatra, where the Yakshas attacked us. When danger loomed, I fled, leaving Suyodhana at their mercy. What true friend abandons his friend in peril?"



Vasusena's tears fell freely now, each drop a testament to his regret. "Through it all, Suyodhana remained steadfast. He never questioned my failures, never complained. He ignored my mistakes, hoping against hope that I could change his destiny. He proved to be a better friend than I ever was to him."



His voice grew softer, filled with the weight of his self-condemnation. "In the end, it is clear to me. I, Vasusena, failed as a true friend. I let my ego, my hatred, and my ambition blind me to what Suyodhana truly needed—a friend who would guide him towards righteousness, not an enabler who would lead him further into darkness."



*******************************



Gandhari's heart shattered for the second time since the return of the Pandavas. Her voice trembled, barely a whisper through her tears. "Why did he do that?" she pleaded, her anguish palpable. "Mahaamahim Bhishma was the one who caused injustice to his family. What did Suyodhana or any of us do to him?" Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her sobs growing louder as she turned into a portrait of inconsolable grief.



Krishna, his face a mask of compassion, gently touched her head with his peacock feather. Gandhari's eyes fluttered closed as sleep overtook her, the weight of the revelations too heavy to bear. Kunti, with Sugandha's help, carefully laid Gandhari onto the bed, her own heart breaking at the sight.



As the room fell into a sombre quiet, Kunti and Sugandha remained by Gandhari's side. The others, their faces etched with disbelief and turmoil, gathered in Bhishma's chamber, each step weighed down by the enormity of the day's revelations.



Bhishma, normally a figure of calm and control, was a storm of fury. His voice thundered through the room. "Poisonous little snake," he seethed, his eyes blazing with anger. "First he insults my teacher, and now he nearly destroys my family. Damned the consequences... I should kill him with my own hands."



The air grew tense as Krishna's eyes narrowed, a cold fire simmering within. Krishna's voice, which was melodious with calm wisdom, now carried the weight of an impending storm as he spoke. "If you do that, Mahaamahim... by tomorrow night, Hastinapur will be wiped off the face of Aryavarta." His words, hard as iron, cut through the tense air like a blade.



The cold certainty in Krishna's declaration sent a shiver down Devaratha's spine. All the anger, all the anguish that had once fueled him, now gave way to a chilling fear. His heart pounded in his chest as he stood frozen, unable to tear his eyes away from the divine avatar before him.



"Vasusena is the disciple of Parameshwara," Krishna continued, his tone now steely, unyielding. "Do you have any idea what that means, Devaratha?" And he could only stare, dumbfounded at the sudden anger of Krishna.



"It means," Krishna pressed on, "that Vasusena was one of the very few who witnessed all forms of Parameshwara. In the course of his training, he fought every form of Shiva, mastering the divine arts as no other could."



Krishna's eyes seemed to pierce through time itself as he recounted the training undergone by the suta. "Vasusena learned all five forms of archery by the blessing of Bholenath himself.



Pasupata had a secret, one known only to Brahma, Shiva, and me. An aspect of his being that he longed for someone to discover."



A faint smile played on Krishna's lips, though it held no warmth. "Vasusena was the one who found it. The joy that filled Bholenath when he realized Vasusena had uncovered that secret... You cannot imagine it.



Radheya was so favored that Shiva imbued him with one of his own domains—the domain of time itself. No one, in the entire history of the world, has ever received such a boon."



Krishna's voice softened for a moment, touched with something like reverence. "Both Parvati and Shiva blessed him, teaching him everything they could. Vasusena, with his pure devotion, pleased Parameshwara so deeply that he was granted divine weapons, weapons that would respond only to his touch."



The weight of Krishna's words hung in the air as he finally turned his gaze back to Devaratha. "And you, Mahaamahim Bhishma, you said you would kill him?"



With a wave of his hand, Krishna conjured a screen of mist, revealing the final battle between Vasusena and Arjuna. The image flickered before them, displaying a duel that defied all description. The clash of their weapons echoed through the ages, a battle witnessed by Devas, Gandharvas, Nymphs, Sages, and Celestials alike.



"It was called the greatest battle of the Dwapara Yuga," Krishna narrated, his voice resonating with the memory of that epic confrontation. "Even the gates of hell opened so that demons, spirits, and the tormented souls of the damned could witness the spectacle."



The ground beneath them seemed to tremble as Krishna spoke, the very earth shuddering at the memory of that titanic clash. They saw Vasusena's death at the hands of Arjuna, struck down when he was bereft of weapons.



Vidhur's voice trembled with awe as he asked, "He has the potential to be that powerful?" The bitterness they harbored toward the suta, the man who had caused them so much pain, could not erase the respect his valor demanded. Watching Arjuna rise to greatness had filled their hearts with hope, but the fierceness with which the suta fought left them stunned, unable to deny the warrior's indomitable spirit.



Krishna's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Oh no, Mamashree Vidur... The duel you witnessed does not truly represent Vasusena's potential. The child who walks among you is already as powerful as the warrior you just watched."



A murmur of astonishment rippled through the assembly. Kripacharya, his brow furrowed in confusion, turned to Krishna. "If he is that powerful, why on earth is he so... relatively mild? He faces insults daily from soldiers, guards, and many others. So why is he so calm, even in the face of such disrespect?"



Krishna's eyes gleamed with a savageness that was inhuman. "If a dog barks at an elephant and still lives... is it because of the valor of the dog or the virtue of the elephant?"



Kripacharya caught the subtle admiration in Krishna's tone, a reverence that spoke volumes about Vasusena's true nature. He frowned, puzzled. If Krishna held the suta in such high regard, why had he painted him as an antagonist in their eyes? Bhishma and the others, eager to regain favor with Queen Gandhari, might have overlooked this, but Kripa saw it clearly. Krishna did not hate Vasusena—at least not completely.



As if sensing Kripa's thoughts, Krishna turned to him, his enigmatic smile deepening. A voice, soft yet powerful, echoed in Kripa's mind.



"Vasusena is one of the finest individuals I've ever known, Kripacharya. Yet his seething anger towards me and Bhishma transforms him into a cold-blooded being. He could have wielded the power granted by Parameshwara to mend this fractured family. But instead, he chose to use it to shatter it further."



"There are four of us, Krishna..." Bhishma's voice was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. "He can't fight four of us and win."



Krishna's response was a soft, almost casual hum. "Might be true, Mahaamahim Devaratha. It would indeed be a daunting task, and perhaps, there is a chance that he might die at your hands. I wouldn't bet against him, though."



Bhishma's eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into his thoughts. Krishna continued, his tone now carrying a warning. "However, there's another issue.



Vasusena's father. He is not a person to be trifled with. If you ever dared to harm even a hair on Vasusena's head... his father would wipe out the entirety of Hastinapur from the map of Aryavarta. And no one—no one—could hope to stop him. Even if I could... I wouldn't."



Vidur's voice was soft, almost a whisper in fear, as the weight of Krishna's words settled over him. "You said Adhiratha was not the biological father of Vasusena. And now you say that his real father could wipe Hastinapur off the face of Aryavarta. So who exactly is the father of Vasusena, Krishna?"



A heavy silence fell over the room. Krishna turned slowly, his gaze distant as he walked towards the balcony. The others watched him with bated breath, the tension thickening with every step he took.



"Will you not announce yourself... oh father of Vasusena?" Krishna's voice carried an eerie calm as he spoke.



Confusion rippled through the assembly. They glanced at each other, bewildered. There was no one else in the room, save for themselves. But Krishna's eyes were fixed on the horizon, where the chariot of Surya Deva hovered in anticipation. The realization struck them like a thunderbolt.



And then, without warning, a blinding flash erupted across the heavens, an explosion of light so intense it seemed to seize time itself. The searing brilliance engulfed the room, plunging it into an almost tangible silence. Every member of the court, every soul in Hastinapur, was momentarily paralyzed by the dazzling glare, their eyes shutting instinctively against the overwhelming brightness.



When their eyes dared to reopen, a colossal figure loomed beside Krishna, towering over them at a staggering twelve feet tall. The very fabric of reality seemed to tremble under his presence. An oppressive hush fell over the world, as though the universe itself had stilled in reverence.



The air grew thick and heavy, laden with the weight of an unseen force. Their breaths came in ragged, desperate gasps, their bodies overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the newcomer's power. The room, once vibrant with life, now felt suffused with an almost unbearable gravity, as though the very atmosphere had turned to lead.



The figure, now fully revealed, radiated an aura that was both divine and terrifying. His presence was a proclamation of power, a reminder of the forces that moved the very heavens. And in that moment, the members of Hastinapur court understood—they were in the presence of a god.



A collective shiver coursed through the assembly. The question, unspoken but palpable, hung in the charged silence, reverberating through their minds like a thunderclap: If a god appeared when Vishnu called for the father of Radheya... could Vasusena truly be the progeny of one of the Devatas?



"I greet thee, O eldest son of Aditi..." Krishna's voice was a melody of reverence, resonating through the room. The title sent a wave of realization rippling through the assembled members. The eldest son of Aditi is...



"I greet thee, O ruler of Cosmos," came the warm reply, rich with authority. The ruler of the Navagraha—the one who governs the nine celestial bodies—had spoken.



Vasusena's father was Surya Narayana?



As if reading their thoughts, Krishna's lips curled into an amused smile. "Radha, his mother, used to say that she was blessed by Suryadev and that Vasusena was her son," Krishna said, his tone light yet laced with profound truth. "She certainly wasn't lying. Vasusena's father is indeed the eldest son of Aditi."



Lord Surya's piercing gaze broke its intense connection with Krishna. His eyes, ablaze with the light of a thousand suns, swept over the elders of Hastinapur like a scorching storm. The suppressed rage and palpable disdain in his stare were almost unbearable, searing through each of them with an intensity that left them breathless.



Bhishma felt it as a scorching brand, the very heat of the sun pressing against his face. But far more devastating was the wave of contempt that crashed over him, curling icy tendrils of terror around his heart. The weight of divine judgment was heavy, undeniable, and inescapable.



A chorus of gasps echoed around him as bodies stiffened in dread. Bhishma realized, with a jolt of chilling horror, that every soul present had felt the same searing wrath—an unmistakable judgment from the heavens themselves.



The room seemed to darken, the air thick with the unspoken acknowledgment of their folly. They had underestimated Vasusena, dismissed him as a mere mortal, when in truth, he was born out of the essence of Surya Deva itself. The gravity of their error hung over them like a storm cloud, the full force of divine wrath looming ever closer.



Bhishma's heart pounded in his chest as he grappled with the enormity of the situation. He had faced countless battles, defied death itself, but now, standing before the father of Vasusena, he felt a fear deeper than any he had ever known. It was the fear of divine retribution, the knowledge that he had crossed a line that should never have been approached.



He had threatened to kill the son of Bhaskara, the very god who illuminates and nurtures the world without bias. The God who provided light to both sinner and saint, rich and poor alike. He threatened him for his adharmic son.



For the first time, Surya Deva had shown partiality. He was a god who embodied fairness, but Vasusena was his son—a son born from his own divine essence.



The realization struck Bhishma like a hammer to the chest. Vasusena might be an adharmi, a man who had strayed from the path of righteousness, but the paternal bond between father and son transcended mortal understanding.



It was a bond that even the impartial Surya Deva could not deny. And a father just like Dhristarastra will always be partial towards his son.



"Partial towards my son, am I?" Surya Deva's voice, though oddly melodious, grated harshly against their ears, like a song that tore through their very souls. Every one of them gulped, the weight of his wrath pressing down on them like a suffocating blanket.



"They will not harm Vasusena... Vivasvan," Krishna's voice was soothing, a balm to the tension in the room. Yet, Surya Deva stood like a stone, his blazing eyes locked on the assembled members, burning with an intensity that threatened to consume them. "You have my word that Vasusena will not be harmed by any of us in this room unless there is a very good reason to do so."



Surya Deva's gaze fixed on Bhishma, and the ancient warrior winced at the god's rebuke. "You called me partial towards my son, Gangaputra. If that were true... I would have killed all of you and wiped out Hastinapur long ago."



His voice, calm yet laced with an undercurrent of barely restrained fury, shook them to their core. "I watched as he wrestled with his very essence, a relentless battle within and against the world that seemed to scorn him at every turn.



He searched desperately for identity, even as he marched down paths that, deep within his soul, he knew were his to tread. His destinations, though foretold, remained elusive to all but a few—hidden even from those who boasted of seeing with clarity.



And then Parameshwara gave him a chance to fight against the world. And he learnt what he was exactly."



Surya Deva's words echoed through the room, each one landing like a hammer blow. Bhishma felt them deep within his heart, a searing reminder of the divine anger they had provoked. "Perhaps the balance of the universe demanded our silence, even as I existed within him, a part of his very being. Perhaps my own penance required that I endure the pain of watching him struggle, learning the hardest lessons on his own.



When he was sneered at by the bastards who are unfit to stand in his presence. I gave him no comfort.



When he was deliberately sabotaged at every turn. When he bore the hate of people around him... I stood silent as it is my duty.



When his heart broke at the death of his loved one... I resolved to remain still, to neither speak nor act, even as I longed to guide him. I did nothing to influence his path, though my heart ached with the burden of my restraint."



The god's voice cut through the silence like a blade, and they felt rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the sheer force of his presence. "However... If there is one thing I have resolved now, O Protector of Cosmos," Surya Deva turned back towards Krishna, his voice hardening with resolve, "it is that anyone who dares to harm him without a good reason... will be naught but ashes the very next moment."



Bhishma was on the verge of breaking down. The god's words had shaken him to his very core. Surya Deva's final warning was a dagger to his heart: "And you, one of the people who pushed him down this path, have no right to touch my son."



"You started the war with my son by throwing him into the flames of despair, oh beloved of Ganga. And the world fought against him and struck him at every turn. In the furnace of the world amid all the beating he had taken... a sword was forged. My son is a sword forged by you, Bhishma. Do you not know the function of a sword Devavrata?



And now you are complaining about the sword which you had a hand in creating?" With those words and a look of disgust, Surya Deva vanished in a flash of light, leaving the room filled with an amused Krishna and the terrified elders of Hastinapur.



Bhishma's thoughts swirled in turmoil. He could agree that he was one of those who had driven Vasusena down a dark path, but in his mind, Vasusena was still an adharmi, a man who had chosen to walk that path of his own volition.



Surya Deva out of his love might have threatened them. But the avatar of Narayana himself supported them. Vasusena tore apart his family in malice, and even Krishna had opposed him because of his unrighteousness.



Kripacharya's voice broke the heavy silence, trembling yet insistent. "Then how come he is a suta?" His tone was soft but edged with fear.



"It's due to niyati that he was raised as a suta, Kripacharya," Krishna replied, his voice carrying a finality that left no room for further questioning. "Anyway... my work here is complete."



With that, Krishna rose, and with a graceful bow, touched the feet of the elders, seeking their blessings. Then, with a serene smile, he turned and left the room, leaving the shaken lords of Hastinapur to grapple with the terrifying truths they had just witnessed.



************************************************************************

"Is your work done, Narayana?" Neelakanta's voice, as deep and resonant as the endless void, broke through the silence, drawing Krishna's attention.



"Yes, it is," Krishna replied, a serene smile playing on his lips. "Vasusena has been too passive lately. I've made sure he'll have enough blessings and power to face what lies ahead. With Suryadeva's warning, the elders of Hastinapur will tread carefully around him."



Parameshwara's voice was gentle, yet it carried the weight of the universe. "This is one of the tests I must give Vasusena. I have already come close to fulfilling his wish of altering the niyati of Suyodhana. If he can understand how to take the next step and complete this trial, Vasusena will be the first to pass through the world of Pashupatastra."



Krishna's eyes softened with concern. "Vasusena is filled with wrath, Maheshwara. If we are to prevent this world from descending into chaos, he must gain more control over his ripus."



Neelakanta smiled with a calm that could soothe the most turbulent storm. "The boon I gave him has made him mistrustful, wary of everyone. He has seen thousands of futures with it, each vision leaving its mark on his soul. Those experiences have twisted him, turning him into something far removed from the man he once was."



Krishna listened intently as Shiva continued. "Vasusena holds more stories in his heart than any living being. In terms of knowledge, he stands just below the Devatas. A person who knows a story has lived a life, but Vasusena has lived thousands upon thousands of lives. It has made him the most knowledgeable person on earth, yet it has also left him weary and distrustful of everything."



Shiva's gaze seemed to pierce through time itself as he spoke. "But the path I have set before him requires more than just knowledge; it demands wisdom. Thank you, Krishna, for guiding him thus far."



Krishna inclined his head, acknowledging Shiva's gratitude. "As I said, he needs to let go of the anger in his heart. His wrath binds him, just as his ego did in his previous life. I can only show him the path, Maheshwara. The journey... he must walk it on his own."