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The seasons had turned almost a full circle since the Pandavas, Kunti, and Nisha had come to stay with the Brahmin family. The passage of time, marked by the shifting colors of the sky and the ripening of crops in the fields, weighed heavily on their hearts. It was now the twelfth month, and still, they waited for Bheem’s return.

In Hastinapur the blind King Dhritarashtra previous month declared duryodhan as the king of Aryavart. He also arranged his crown ceremony instead of expressing grief over loosing his younger brothers son.

Life in the Brahmin household had become a quiet routine. Mata Kunti had long since introduced Nisha as her daughter-in-law, the soon-to-be wife of Nakul. This simple announcement had woven Nisha into the fabric of the family, though the weight of it settled in her heart differently each day. The Brahmin family, though kind and welcoming, struggled with their own hardships. Their modest home, tucked near the edge of the village, buzzed with activity but lacked the abundance of finer households. Nisha had learned to adapt, though the kitchen remained a challenge for her. Despite her efforts, the art of cooking eluded her.

Mata Kunti would often take over, her practiced hands helped the Brahmin lady in preparing meals, while Nisha found herself better suited to other tasks. Washing and chopping vegetables became her daily responsibility. She would sweep the house when needed, her movements swift and efficient, though she never stayed long in the kitchen. In the evenings, the Brahmin’s daughter, Rohini, would take over the sweeping, a quiet rhythm of the day that they shared. Together, Nisha and Rohini would walk to the pond twice daily, their footsteps light as they carried empty pots, their return journey heavier with the weight of water. In these moments, Rohini, who saw Nisha as an elder sister, would chatter about village life, her voice filled with youthful excitement, unaware of the shadows that clung to the Pandavas' thoughts.

Nisha found solace in these simple tasks. Though not born to a life of labor, she took to it with quiet determination. Nakul, too, noticed. Whenever their paths crossed, whether in the village or near the pond, he would silently take the heavy matka from her hands, carrying it as if it were his natural duty. His actions were unspoken yet steady, a constant source of comfort for Nisha in a world that felt increasingly uncertain.

Yet, despite these small moments of normalcy, a deep gloom had settled over the household. Yudhishthir, ever the calm and composed leader, wore his despair like an invisible shroud. He carried the burden of their exile heavily, his eyes often distant as if calculating the future that lay beyond their grasp. Arjun’s anger simmered closer to the surface. At times, when they were alone, he would vent his fury to Nisha, speaking in hushed tones of his hatred for Duryodhan and Shakuni. His words were sharp, laced with the unspoken promise of vengeance.

Nakul and Sahadev, though more reserved in their emotions, shared their own frustrations with Nisha. In the quiet hours of dusk, when the sky turned shades of pink and gold, they would sit with her, gazing at the horizon. Nakul would say, his voice calm but firm. "Duryodhan and mama Shakuni will regret this". Sahadev, usually silent, would nod in agreement, his eyes filled with unspoken resolve. Arjun would sometimes join them, his fists clenched as he spoke of the justice they would one day seek. Sometimes they would also share some playful banter and humourous conversations.

In this humble Brahmin home, ten souls lived under one roof. The Pandavas—Yudhishthir, Arjun, Nakul, Sahadev, and Kunti—formed one half of the household, while the Brahmin family made up the rest. The Brahmin and his wife, along with their two children—Rohini, a girl of about seventeen, and their young son, barely five—filled the small house with life. It was cramped, but they managed, the warmth of shared meals and quiet conversations holding the fragile threads of their lives together.

As they waited for Bheem, their lives continued, a delicate balance of survival and hope. Yet, with each passing day, the weight of their exile pressed harder upon them, the moments of joy fleeting as they longed for the day when they could reclaim their rightful place. And still, Nakul remained by Nisha’s side, his silent gestures of care never failing, even as the shadow of war loomed ever closer. Sometimes he too used to helpless but Nisha used to help him to stay calm and positive. Afterall Nisha was his strength and nakul was her power.

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