The waters of the Yamuna shimmered under the soft glow of the evening sun, their gentle waves carrying whispers of forgotten conversations and unspoken prayers. Arjuna stood at the riverbank, his gaze resting on the still figure before him.

Niyati.

She sat in deep Dhyana, untouched by time, her presence as serene as the flowing river itself. The world around her had changed and moved forward, yet she remained rooted in meditation—silent, unmoving, lost in a realm beyond reach.

Arjuna exhaled profoundly and walked toward her. He sat near her feet, his fingers tracing absent patterns on the damp earth as he looked up at her face, searching for any sign that she was listening. "It has been eight years," he began, his voice heavy with longing and quiet frustration. Yet, you are still in this Meditation.

He let the words linger in the air before continuing. "In these eight years, all of us, your brothers, went for Digvijaya. We conquered kingdoms and expanded Indraprastha's might, yet your absence never left us, Niyati. Had you been with us, everything would have been different. Perhaps easier, perhaps better." His fingers curled into a fist, not in anger but in helplessness. "Brata Yuyutsu is also not with us. When will you return, Niyati? When will you be with us again? Please... come back to us."

His words faded into the evening breeze, swallowed by the rustling leaves and the distant calls of the river birds. But Niyati remained still as though his voice had never reached her. A quiet rustle behind him made him turn.

Subhadra. She approached gracefully, holding a silver goblet in her hands. The light glinted off the deep amber liquid inside.

Arjuna blinked in surprise. "Sharbat?"

Subhadra smiled, her voice soft as she replied, "Arya, this is for Bhagini."

She knelt beside Niyati and placed the goblet beside her, careful not to disturb her meditation. Brata Yuyutsu once told me that whenever Bhagini enters Dhyana, she must always have a sharbat waiting for her. To ensure she doesn't grow weak." Her fingers brushed the goblet's rim as she added, "That is why I bring it here daily." If she wakes suddenly, she can drink."

A deep warmth spread across Arjuna's chest. He smiled, his gaze softening as he reached out and lightly patted her cheek. "You are the best at caring, Subhadra." She lowered her eyes with a modest smile, but Arjuna's mind wandered elsewhere. His voice turned wistful. "In these eight years, I was not with you. But when I saw Abhimanyu..." He paused, his lips curving into a small smile. "I was happy."

He exhaled as if releasing the weight of years gone by. "Not just Abhimanyu... I feel proud to see all my sons growing into fine men. Iravan is thirteen now. Babruvahana is eleven and a half. And our Abhimanyu... he has turned ten. They remind me of us, Bhadre—their bond, innocence, and laughter... it feels like watching our childhood again. Yet, I miss my other children too. Another four years and I can be with them." He looked at her then, his eyes reflecting the ache of nostalgia and the quiet joy of the present. "We miss those days... yet, simultaneously, we are happy where we are."

Subhadra reached out and clasped his hand, her touch firm and grounding. "Nothing will go wrong, Arya," she assured him, her voice steady. "Not when Bhagini is here. Not when Brata Krishna is there. They will handle everything." Arjuna studied her face for a moment, then let out a soft chuckle. "Yes," he murmured. Nothing will go wrong now."

And yet, deep within him, a whisper of uncertainty lingered. The river flowed, the sky slowly dimmed, and Niyati remained unmoved. The world had changed, but some silences refused to be broken.

Echoes of Laughter

The sun cast its golden hue upon the gardens of Indraprastha, where echoes of laughter intertwined with the rustling breeze. The day belonged not to warriors or kings but to fathers and sons, to the bonds that transcended war, duty, and time. Six Pandavas—Vasusena, Yudhishthira, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva- stood amidst their sons, their eyes filled with pride and affection. The boys had grown, each carrying a spark of their father's greatness yet forging their path.

Vrishasena and Banasena, now sixteen, carried themselves with the quiet confidence of warriors in their prime. Yaudheya, Sushena, and Bhanusena, fifteen, shared knowing glances, their eagerness to prove themselves evident.

Iravan, thirteen, had the sharp, calculating gaze of a Naga prince, while Babruvahana, eleven and a half, carried himself with regal composure, a son of two great warriors.

Satyasena, Prasenjit, and Dvipata, eleven, brimming with boundless energy, eyes glinting with playful mischief.

Abhimanyu and Sarvaga, ten, stood together, their bond unshakable, their determination mirroring that of their legendary fathers.

And then there were the youngest, Satyasandh and Shatrunjaya, six, still clinging to Vasusena's hands, eyes wide with admiration, eager to join the fun.

The fathers exchanged looks. "Shall we test to see if they are truly our sons?" Vasusena asked, smirking.

Bhima roared with laughter. "A game it is!" Bhima clapped his hands. "Let us see if our sons have inherited our strength!"

Vrishasena, Banasena, Yaudheya, and Bhanusena stepped forward to face Vasusena and Bhima. Banasena flexed his arms, grinning. "Pitashree, I will defeat you today!"

Vasusena chuckled. "Try your best, Putr."

Bhima squared his shoulders, facing Satyasena and Dvipata. "Come, boys! Wrestle your Kakashree if you dare!"

Prasenjit, never one to back down, nudged Sarvaga. "Let's work together!"

Sarvaga nodded. "They won't see it coming."

The match began. Bhima effortlessly lifted Satyasena off the ground, making the boy laugh. "Too light!" he bellowed.

Vasusena and Banasena locked arms in an actual test of power. Banasena gritted his teeth, pushing with all his might, while Vrishasena used his speed to attack from the side.

Satyasandh and Shatrunjaya, watching their elder brothers, pouted. "We want to wrestle too!" Shatrunjaya declared. Nakula crouched beside them, ruffling their hair. "Then come, little warriors. Take me down if you can." The six-year-olds jumped on Nakula, their tiny fists flailing as they clung to him. Nakula laughed, pretending to fall dramatically. "Ah! You are too strong!"

The wives, sitting under the shade, chuckled as they watched. "Our sons fight as fiercely as their fathers," Draupadi mused, eyes shining warmly. Subhadra smirked. "Of course. They are their blood." Krodhini and Stambhinī, Vasusena's wives, watched with pride as their sons matched their father's strength. "They are improving," Krodhini murmured.

Arjuna twirled his bow. "Now, let us see if our sons can match us in skill." Abhimanyu and Vrishasena exchanged confident looks.

"Set the targets," Sahadeva instructed. The challenge was set—multiple targets at varying distances, some barely visible to the naked eye. Arjuna shot first, his arrow splitting a distant leaf in two. Vasusena followed, striking a fruit as it fell. Yudhishthira, though not as competitive, hit a mark with grace.

Then came the sons. Vrishasena, steady as ever, not only struck his target but pierced two in a single shot. Abhimanyu's arrow curved mid-air, hitting a hidden target no one had noticed. Babruvahana, ever the strategist, calculated the angles and fired two arrows simultaneously, each hitting its mark with precision. Prasenjit, not to be outdone, smirked. "Watch this." He lost his arrow, which ricocheted between trees before striking its target.

The Pandavas exchanged glances. "Impressive," Arjuna admitted.

The challenge was simple: capture a hidden flag while avoiding the fathers' defences. Satyasena and Prasenjit took charge, whispering to each other. "Iravan, you distract them."

Iravan grinned. "Done."

As soon as the game began, Iravan slithered through the field like a true Naga, drawing attention. Bhima turned to chase him, but at that moment, Banasena and Sushena leapt over a fallen log, covering their advance.

Meanwhile, Yaudheya and Dvipata flanked the sides, distracting Nakula and Sahadeva. Then, at the perfect moment, Babruvahana, Satyasandh, and Shatrunjaya, small and swift, dashed through the chaos. Waiting in the shadows, Sarvaga snatched the flag and held it high. "Victory!"

The Pandavas turned in shock. Bhima sighed dramatically. "They have beaten us." Yudhishthira smiled. "And so, the next generation rises."

Vasusena ruffled Satyasandh's hair. "It seems that even the youngest can outsmart us." Arjuna folded his arms, eyeing Iravan. "You learned well, my son."

Iravan grinned. "From the best."

The games ended, but the warmth of family remained. Fathers and sons sat together, recounting their victories and losses with laughter. The wives joined them, their presence a comforting embrace. Watching her husbands and sons, Draupadi felt content. "For this moment, there is no war. Only love." Valandhara nodded. "And that is enough."

The sun dipped beyond the horizon, leaving behind echoes of laughter, the promise of new legends, and the unbreakable bond of family.

Echoes of a Mother's Heart

The night in Indraprastha was calm, but silence held the weight of unspoken sorrow within Draupadi's chamber. She stood by the open window, the cool night breeze caressing her face, carrying memories of small hands tugging at her clothes, soft giggles echoing in the corridors, and warm little bodies curled up beside her.

Now, those corridors were quiet. Too quiet. She felt a presence behind her. Her husbands stepped inside one after another, drawn by the quiet ache they all shared.

Bhima reached her first, his deep voice breaking the silence. "You are thinking about them again," he said.

Draupadi didn't turn. Her fingers tightened on the windowsill. "How can I not?" she whispered. "Prativindhya is sixteen. Sutasoma is fourteen. Satanika, twelve. Shrutasena, ten and a half. Śrutakarma, eight. And yet... I have not been able to watch them grow."

Her voice trembled, but she managed to hold herself together. She had to. Arjuna stepped beside her, his gaze lost in the stars. "Four more years." His voice was steady, but Draupadi knew him too well; she heard the longing hidden beneath those words. She turned to face him, her eyes filled with unshed tears. "Four years, Arya. Do you know how long that is for a Mata?"

Nakula, ever gentle, placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "We all miss them, Nityayuvani." His voice was soft but firm. "Not a single day goes by when I don't think of Satanika's laughter or Shrutasena's endless questions."

Sahadeva exhaled deeply. "Shrutasena must have grown taller. I wonder if he still follows Prativindhya everywhere like he used to. Holding onto his robes, he looked up to him as if he were his whole world." Draupadi closed her eyes. She could still see Shrutasena running behind his elder brothers, trying to match their pace with his tiny steps. How had time passed so quickly?

Yudhishthira, who had remained silent, finally spoke, his voice filled with quiet pain. "Prativindhya would have been here tonight, sitting beside you and telling you about his training. Sutasoma always waits for your approval before making any decision. And Satanika..." He stopped, swallowing hard. "Satanika never left your side. He must be missing you just as much as you miss him."

Draupadi's breath hitched. "And Shrutasena... and little Śrutakarma..."

Bhima ran a hand over his face. "Sutasoma must have become a fine young man by now. I wonder if he still carries that calmness or if Kailash has hardened him." Arjuna shook his head. "He was born under the blessings of Chandradev. He will always be like the moon, gentle but steady, glowing even in the darkest night."

Draupadi's heart clenches at those words. "They were so small when they left." Her voice was barely audible. "They needed me. And I let them go." Yudhishthira stepped forward, his eyes soft and understanding. "You did not let them go, Draupadi. You gave them wings. They will return stronger and wiser. But they will always be our children."

A tear slipped down Draupadi's cheek. "Will they remember me?" Silence fell in the room. Bhima finally spoke, his voice thick with emotion. How could they ever forget their Mother?

Draupadi covered her face, shaking with silent sobs. She felt warm hands around her, Arjuna's firm grip on her shoulder, Nakula's reassuring touch, Sahadeva's gentle embrace, and Yudhishthira's quiet strength beside her. And then, as if from the depths of her soul, she whispered, "Sharvisha."

Yudhishthira's breath hitched. "She will be eight now." Arjuna exhaled. "The same age as Śrutakarma."

Draupadi looked at them, her heart aching for the child who was far away, just as she was. "She must be missing her parents too." Sahadeva nodded. "She is strong, just like Niyati."

Yudhishthira closed his eyes, guilt washing over him. I wish I hadn't spoken to Niyati that way." His voice broke slightly. "She deserved better from me." Arjuna placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "She will understand. And so, will Sharvisha."

The night air was thick with longing. The wind whispered through the open window, carrying with it the echoes of laughter, tiny hands tugging at their clothes, and voices calling them Mata and Pita.

Bhima exhaled deeply. "Four more years." Draupadi leaned against him, her eyes closed. "Four more years." They stood together, not as warriors or rulers, but as parents yearning, waiting, and aching for the day when the halls of Indraprastha would once again be filled with the sound of their children's laughter.

Duty and Desire

The sun had begun to mellow upon the horizon, casting soft, golden rays over Indraprastha. Yudhishthira, seated in the Sabha, was engrossed in state matters when the guards announced the arrival of the King of Madra. His presence was unexpected yet carried the dignity of kinship and old ties. When Yudhishthira saw him, a subtle wave of emotion surged within him. This was not just a visiting monarch; he was the brother of their late mother, Madri. The memory of Madri, the gentle, self-sacrificing mother who had walked into the pyre with Pandu, flickered in Yudhishthira's mind like an old wound that had been touched anew. Rising with grace, he welcomed his Mamashree with folded palms.

After exchanging courtesies, the King of Madra spoke soon, his voice heavy with emotion. "Yudhishthira, many years have passed since my Bhagini, your Matula Madri, passed away. Yet, her blood runs strong through Nakula and Sahadeva. I have a humble proposal to share. Putri Vijaya has reached the age of marriage. I want to see her wed Sahadeva, her cousin and my nephew. This would be an alliance of kingdoms, culminating in my bond with Madri."

Yudhishthira's heart grew soft. His gaze instinctively searched for Sahadeva, who stood quietly, absorbing the words without revealing much of himself. Yudhishthira nodded respectfully, "Mamashree, you honour us beyond words. But this decision is Sahadeva's, and we respect his will above all."

Later that evening, under the serene glow of moonlight, Sahadeva approached Draupadi in the royal garden. He found her sitting quietly by the lotus pond, lost in thought. To him, she was not only Maharani of Indraprastha but also Panchami, his beloved wife. The duality of her roles always intrigued him: the fierce queen and the tender companion. Sahadeva, kneeling slightly, called gently, "Panchami..."

Draupadi turned, her eyes softening at the sight of him. "Deva, why such hesitation in your voice?"

He sat beside her, close but reverent. "I wished to speak with you before responding to Mamashree's proposal. He desires me to wed Vijaya, my Mātuleyī (Maternal Uncle's daughter), and his Putri. I... do not know how to place this. I wish to share this with you, as your husband, a friend, and a man who values you beyond the crowns and dharma.

Draupadi's face held both surprise and affection. For a moment, she searched his eyes. "Deva," she said softly, "you have always been one who keeps the sanctity of relationships above all else. As your Panchami and Maharani, I shall not bind you with insecurities. If this union strengthens your heart and our dharma, you must choose it with your own will."

Sahadeva's voice trembled, "But do you not feel... distant? Will this not create a space between us?"

Draupadi smiled gently, brushing his hair aside, "We are bound by deeper threads, Arya. Threads are woven by trust, not mere possessiveness. I have always stood by each of you, not only as a queen but as a woman who understands the course of dharma. Vijaya is your kin. Madri's blood flows in you. Do what your heart says."

Sahadeva could feel the storm within him settle. He held Draupadi's hand, resting his forehead on it. "Panchami, you are truly exceptional. I am humbled, always. Dhanyavaad."

As dawn approached, Sahadeva walked into the royal Sabha with a calm heart, where Yudhishthira, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula, and Vasusena were gathered with the King of Madra. Sahadeva stood tall yet with his usual humility. With a soft, serene smile, Sahadeva declared, "Mamashree Dyutimat, I accept this proposal. Vijaya shall be my wife."

A gentle silence filled the room, neither heavy nor cold, but warm and inviting. The brothers looked at each other, seeing a prince fulfilling a duty and a man finding harmony between dharma and his emotions. From afar, Draupadi stood watching, her eyes glistening. She knew well that love does not bind; it liberates.

The news of Sahadeva's acceptance spread through Indraprastha like the sweet fragrance of fresh jasmine at dawn. Yet, beneath the ceremonial gaiety, every corner of the palace echoed with emotions, some silent, some unspoken, and some so overwhelming as to be beautiful.

The Sabha was now adorned with the vibrant colours of Madra and Indraprastha. The banners carried the insignia of both houses, the deer of Madra and the proud lion of the Pandavas, fluttering gently under the soft Indraprastha breeze. Yet, within the grand preparations, a more profound tale stirred quietly in hearts.

Draupadi stood before the mirror in the royal quarters, her hands gently braiding her hair. The reflection staring back was not just the Maharani but Panchami, the woman who had stood beside each of her husbands through every battle and every sacrifice. As she tightened the braid, a soft knock interrupted her.

Sahadeva entered, clothed, without the usual ornaments of a prince. His eyes sought hers as if he needed to draw courage from her. "Panchami..." he whispered.

Draupadi turned, her eyes already moist yet proud. She understood without words. She could feel the weight within him, the duality of joy and guilt, duty and personal longing. He walked closer, lowering his eyes, "You have always been my strength... today I feel I am about to drift into a new ocean, but I don't wish to lose the shore that is you."

Draupadi gently lifted his face with her fingertips, "Arya, you are not drifting away. You are expanding. Love is not meant to be confined. I have known you since you were a quiet young boy hiding behind Nakula. I see you now, stepping into manhood, into Madri's legacy."

Sahadeva choked slightly, "Do you not fear... this will change us?" Draupadi's smile was melancholy yet graceful, "Change is inevitable, my beloved. But love... it adapts. It deepens."

Meanwhile, in another chamber, Nakula sat alone, staring at a small ivory comb, the last gift their mother, Madri, had given him. His heart swelled with memories of childhood. The comb was slightly chipped, but to him, it was more precious than any jewel could be. He whispered to himself, "Mata... your Sahadeva is taking your Madra blood forward."

Days passed, and finally, Vijaya arrived, clad in deep crimson and royal gold. The daughter of Madra, her eyes held the sharpness of her ancestors but also a softness akin to Madri herself. As she stepped into Indraprastha, every eye took note of the resemblance.

Sahadeva, dressed in white silk with simple emerald adornments, welcomed her as a prince and Madri's son silently honouring his mother with every gesture. Draupadi watched from behind the veil of flowers as the rituals commenced, her heart carrying the strange ache of a mother, a sister, and a companion. Her eyes welled up when Vijaya bowed and said, "Maharani Draupadi, you are the Mata of this house. Accept me." Draupadi embraced Vijaya without hesitation, whispering, "Welcome, Bhagini. This home is yours as much as it is ours."

Sahadeva stood still, his heart overwhelmed by love, dharma, and the memories of Madri mingling within. Yet amidst the solemnity, his eyes searched for Panchami, who gave him a simple nod. He smiled a genuine, open, heartfelt smile he had not shown in years.

That night, as Indraprastha echoed with the sounds of celebration, beneath the laughter, music, and sacred chants, what echoed the loudest was the quiet, profound love of a family the love that binds, frees, and heals. The sounds of birds returning to their nests filled the evening air as the courtyard of Indraprastha embraced everyone. Amidst the gentle rustle of trees, Nakula sat beneath a flowering Parijata, his fingers absently weaving blades of grass. Draupadi noticed his silence from afar. She quietly stepped closer, the soft swish of her saree the only sound that bridged the gap between them.

Nakula looked up, a faint smile curving his lips, but his eyes betrayed a tender weight. "Nityayuvani," he whispered, calling her not a queen but the eternal maiden who stood beside them in every storm. Draupadi sat beside him, saying not a word, allowing silence to envelop them like an old shawl.

"It has been years," Nakula murmured, eyes fixed on the ground. "Yet... I still crave her touch." His voice trembled, barely a whisper, "Mata Madri." His throat tightened. "Her scent, her laughter... even the stories she told under the starlight. I never got to hold her hand as a grown son would, nor sit beside her as a man who understands. I only remember the soft, distant warmth of a mother... fading."

Draupadi gently placed her hand on his. Nakula continued, voice breaking. "I have often wondered if she ever thought I would be enough. If she worried that I would be lost without her. Did she entrust me to you knowingly, Nityayuvani? You have been... more than fate intended."

He turned to her fully now, tears shimmering in his eyes. "And yet, there are nights, even now, when I stand before the stables, feeling the breeze, and pretend I hear her singing from afar". His shoulders slumped. "Tell me, Nityayuvani... why does the heart never grow old, even when the world does?"

Draupadi brushed her palm across his cheek, softly whispering, "Because love does not age, Arya. It only deepens. In you, she lives, breathes, and watches." Nakula's head gently fell on Draupadi's shoulder, not as a warrior but as a son longing for a mother's unseen embrace.

Beneath the Layers of Silence

In the farthest pavilion, where lamps flickered like hesitant hearts, Sahadeva stood alone, gazing at the soaked courtyard. Vijaya entered quietly, unsure, clasping her veil tightly. Sahadeva's voice broke the silence, low and heavy, "You've been quiet since the announcement. Why, Vijaya? Why do I sense fear instead of joy?"

Vijaya was startled, words caught in her throat. "I..." she hesitated, then swallowed hard, eyes lowering. "Because I am afraid, Arya."

He turned fully, eyes searching her face.

Vijaya gathered courage. "When Pitashree mentioned this alliance, I froze. I am young, Arya, too young to be your patni, who is already a pati, a Pita, a scholar, a warrior, and a Rajkumar. Her voice trembled as she confessed, "And not just any husband. You are Yajnaseni's husband. The woman whose name itself sways the rivers and commands the earth."

She clenched her fists, the words pouring out like a flood breaking a dam. "I wondered, what place is left for me? How can I stand beside you when the very air of Indraprastha hums her name? When does every corner of this palace echo with the footsteps of your children? Your child, Shrutasena, is already older than I ever imagined. Fourteen summers have passed, and I... I feel like stepping into a story that began without me." Her eyes welled, but she held herself firm. "I feared being nothing more than a shadow. A second thought. A girl stepping into shoes too large, too hallowed."

Sahadeva exhaled deeply, walking closer until only a breath separated them. His voice cracked. "Vijaya... you are not wrong."

His words startled her.

He continued, "I did not seek another wife. Life brought you to me. And yes, my love for Panchami is vast and deeply rooted. She is the strength that steadied me when our world crumbled. Together, we've held the threads of this fragile family, weaving the joys and wounds of five brothers into a single tapestry.

His eyes softened. "And Shrutasena... he left for Kailash when he was barely two and a half, still holding my little finger. And now... he will return after three more years, grown, unknown, perhaps calling me stranger instead of Pitashree. And it terrifies me." His voice cracked, "I do not wait only for Shrutasena, Vijaya. I wait for Prativindhya, Sutasoma, Satanika, Śrutakarma... They are all ours. All of us, not just Panchami's or mine alone. Each child bears the fragrance of all five fathers."

He paused, letting the rain speak for a heartbeat. Sahadeva's voice trembled. "Yet in this waiting, in this endless ache... I did not realize the fear I placed upon you."

Vijaya blinked through her tears. "I saw how you all spoke of Bhagini Draupadi, how even her name on your lips was sacred. I feared I could never reach you. And... what am I, Arya? A young Rajkumari barely touches the wisdom that life has to offer. You have lived wars and carried griefs that I cannot name. And me? I carry only the weight of insecurity."

She turned away, but Sahadeva gently pulled her back, his hand firm yet tender. "Vijaya, look at me." She obeyed.

He whispered, "Do you think I don't carry fears? I do not tremble at the thought of holding my son after years, unsure if he will recognize my scent and face. Or that I haven't woken in the night, wondering if Panchami will one day look beyond me because she was never bound to me alone but to us all. His eyes softened. "I fear too, Vijaya. I have been the youngest, the silent one, the one who speaks last and loves first. And yet, I hold so many roles that I do not even know which one is truly me. And now, I am your husband."

Vijaya's lips parted, trembling. "Do you mean it? Do you really... wish to be my husband, not just by alliance?"

He cupped her face, voice as fragile as silk yet fierce as steel. "I do. But only if you will walk beside me, not as a substitute or a duty, but as Vijaya, the woman who today made me feel seen, who dared to speak even when fear gripped her heart." He took a deep, shaky breath. "I cannot promise you a love story, Vijaya. I am a man bound by dharma, a father waiting for children who may not remember me, a husband who shares his beloved with his brothers. But I promise you this: you will not be unseen, unheard, or unloved."

Vijaya sobbed softly. "I feared being a stranger to you. A burden, perhaps."

Sahadeva pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, desperately. "You could never be a burden. You are my gift, given when I least expected it but when I needed it most." The rain outside seemed to slow as if witnessing the quiet union of two souls, one weighed by grief, the other by insecurity, yet both now sharing a fragile hope.

The chamber was dimly lit, the golden glow of oil lamps casting soft flickers across the walls. The women sat nearby, their silken robes pooling around them like ripples on a quiet lake. Tonight, there were no crowns, no courtly airs, and only women, wives, and hearts laid bare. Their lives had intertwined for years, yet the unspoken words had lingered like shadows. Tonight, they would speak.

Devika's gaze rested on the golden surface of her bracelet, her fingers tracing its patterns absentmindedly. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the weight of unshaken devotion. "Do you know," she began, looking up, "when I married Arya, I feared him more than I loved him?"

The others turned to her, surprised. "He was the embodiment of Dharma, a man whose heart was bound by the laws of righteousness. What place did a woman's small desires hold in such a vast, unshakable soul? I wondered, will he ever be mine, or will I always belong to the Dharma he carries on his shoulders?" She exhaled softly. "But over time, I saw the man beyond the crown. He carries his burdens alone and hides his struggles behind his wisdom. I learned to love him not because he was a king but because he was human. And in that, I found my place—not behind him, not beneath him, but beside him, where he let me stand." She smiled, a quiet strength in her eyes. "I love him, not because he is Maharaja Yudhishthira the Just, but because he is mine."

Valandhara shifted, her fingers tightening on the edge of her dupatta. "I was afraid of Arya when I first came here," she confessed. "Not because he was unkind, no, never that. But because he was... larger than life. His presence, his love, his rage, it was all-consuming. And I wondered, where is the space for me?" A soft chuckle escaped her lips. "But Arya... he is not just a warrior. He is the gentlest storm. His love does not ask you to step aside; it sweeps you in, wraps around you like the strongest fortress." Her eyes softened. "And when he looks at me, it is not as a king or a warrior but as a man. He does not compare me to anyone or ask me to be something I am not. And that... that is love I had never known before."

Chitrāngadā's dark eyes gleamed with old memories. "When I first saw Arjuna, I was a queen," she said, voice steady. "Strong, proud, undefeated. I did not think of love. I thought of duty, of lineage. We fell in love, but sometimes I feel... She inhaled. "For weeks, I waited for an answer. Was I his wife? Or was I just another stop on his journey?" Her fingers curled in her lap. "And when I finally came here, I saw the truth. He is not a man who belongs to just one woman. His love is a river; it flows, nourishes, but never stops. She met Draupadi's gaze, something unreadable in her eyes. "And yet, he is still mine. Not in the way the world thinks but in the way that matters. My love for him does not ask him to stay—it is enough that I know where his heart wanders, and that part of it will always belong to me."

Ulupi smiled, tilting her head. "Perhaps I am the strangest among us," she said lightly. "My love was never meant to be. I took him, begot a son, and in the end, he left me, just as the river leaves its banks. She chuckled, but there was no bitterness in it. "I knew from the moment he touched my world that he was not meant to be mine to keep. And yet, in those fleeting moments, he became the father of my child, the man whose shadow still lingers in the waters of my home." Her gaze turned distant. "My love was not about holding on. It was about giving. And I do not regret a single moment."

Subhadra's fingers toyed with the pearls at her wrist. "I had the choice," she said. "I could have chosen a different path. A simpler one. But I chose Arya." She smiled faintly. "Not because he was a great warrior, not because he was a Pandava, but because when he looked at me, I saw myself—not as a princess, not as someone's sister, but as the woman he wanted." She exhaled. "And so, I chose him. I chose this life, this path, knowing well that I would share him, that his heart would never be mine alone. But when you love someone, you do not ask for chains. You ask only for the moments that are yours." She glanced at Draupadi, her voice softer. "And I have had my moments. And they are enough."

Draupadi listened, her heart swelling with the echoes of their love, struggles, and acceptance. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but firm. "I did not choose this path," she said. "I was given to it like a river forced into a new course." She glanced at each of them. "And yet, here we are. Years have passed, and we have not just survived but grown." Her gaze softened. "You have all spoken of love and acceptance. Do you know what I have learned?"

She exhaled. "Love is not measured in time or ownership. Love is measured in understanding. And I understand now that we are not just wives—we are the roots of this kingdom. We are the hands that hold our men when the world tries to break them."

She turned to Krodhini and Stambhinī, her voice warm. "And you, too, are part of this. You have stood beside me through storms and shadows. Do not think I do not see you." The two women lifted their eyes for the first time that night, silent but listening. Draupadi smiled. "This is not a life any of us dreamed of. But it is ours. And I, for one, would not change a single thing."

There was silence. Then, one by one, the women smiled in agreement and understanding. The ties that bound them were not chains. They were not rivals or ornaments in a king's court. They were women who had loved, lost and found themselves again.

And that, above all, was what made them unbreakable. The six Pandavas stood at a distance, watching. And in their eyes, there was only one truth. The centre of their world, the reason for their peace, laughter, and home—was right there, sitting among them. And she was not alone.

A Bond Blossoms

The warm rays of the morning sun spilt into the courtyard, casting golden hues on the polished marble floors. A gentle breeze carried the children's laughter, playing in the distance, and the fragrance of blooming jasmine lingered in the air.

Vijaya, her steps light yet purposeful, made her way through the corridors. As she entered the garden, her gaze fell upon Subhadra, seated gracefully under the shade of a mango tree. In her lap, Abhimanyu giggled as his mother gently ran her fingers through his curls, murmuring words of affection. Vijaya hesitated momentarily, then stepped forward and bowed, touching Subhadra's feet in a gesture of respect. "Bhagini," she greeted softly.

Subhadra looked down at her, warmth illuminating her eyes. She reached out, touching Vijaya's head in blessing. "Vijaya, you do not need to bow before me," she said with a smile. "Come, sit beside me."

Vijaya obeyed, settling herself on the cool grass. Her eyes drifted toward the boy near her. "He looks just like Brata Arjuna," she noted, a fond smile tugging at her lips. Subhadra chuckled. "He has his Pitashree's fire and his Mamashree's mischief," she said, tapping Abhimanyu's nose playfully. "But his heart, I believe, is entirely his own."

The two women sat in comfortable silence, watching Abhimanyu squirming out of his mother's lap and toddling toward a butterfly that fluttered nearby. After a while, Vijaya glanced at Subhadra curiously. "Bhagini, may I ask you something?"

Subhadra nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Of course, Vijaya." Vijaya's eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Did your Brata, Shri Krishna, really bring the Parijata tree to Dwarka?"

At this, Subhadra's lips curled into an amused smile. "Yes, he did," she confirmed. Vijaya leaned forward, eager. "Can you tell me the story?" Subhadra's expression softened as she nodded. "Let me take you back to when the heavens themselves watched in awe..."

"Parijata is no ordinary tree, Vijaya," Subhadra began, her voice carrying the weight of ancient tales. "It was born from the ocean's depths during the great Samudra Manthan, the churning of the cosmic ocean."

Vijaya's eyes widened. "From the churning of the ocean?"

"Yes," Subhadra affirmed. As the devas and asuras churned the ocean, many divine treasures emerged—Lakshmi Devi, Kaustubha, Kalpavriksha, and the Parijata tree. Its flowers were pristine white, but their stalks bore an orange tinge as if touched by the first rays of dawn. Their fragrance was unlike anything the world had ever known."

Vijaya listened, enraptured. "Indradev," Subhadra continued, "claimed this divine tree. He planted it in his sacred garden, Nandaka, in Swarga, ensuring that only the heavens could bask in its beauty." Subhadra's voice took on a different tone, laced with admiration and humour. "Years passed, and then came when Brata and Satyabhama Bhabhishree fought against the Narakasura. It was a fierce battle, but Brata, with his divine prowess, vanquished the demon, restoring peace once more."

Vijaya nodded, already familiar with the tale of Narakasura's fall. "As a token of gratitude," Subhadra continued, "Indradev invited them to Swarga. But while he welcomed them with grandeur, he failed to honour their efforts." Vijaya frowned. "He did not offer anything in return?"

Subhadra smiled knowingly. "Not even a simple word of thanks beyond formalities. Satyabhama Bhabhishree, ever sharp-witted, noticed this. She turned to Brata and said, 'Ask for the Parijata tree. Let us see how much Indradev values his treasures over his gratitude.'"

Vijaya's breath hitched. "She challenged Indradev's attachment to wealth?"

Subhadra nodded. "Yes. As expected, Indradev refused. He did not wish to part with the tree. But Brata—" she paused, her smile deepening, "Brata cannot take ingratitude lightly. Without a word, he uprooted the Parijata tree and mounted Garuda, taking Satyabhama Bhabhishree with him as they flew toward Dwarka."

Vijaya's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Indradev must have been furious!"

Subhadra chuckled. "He pursued them on his mighty elephant, Airavata, determined to reclaim the tree. A battle ensued, but Indradev was no match for him. Ultimately, when Brata and Satyabhama Bhabhishree stood victorious, they did not gloat. Instead, they revealed their true intent not to insult Indra, but to teach him humility."

Vijaya exhaled, her heart pounding at the sheer intensity of the tale. "Indradev," Subhadra continued, "realized his folly. With newfound humility, he offered the Parijata willingly. And so, what began as an act of defiance became a symbol of Brata's victory not just over Indradev but over pride itself."

Subhadra's voice grew lighter now, tinged with mirth. "Brata, in his wisdom, requested Satyabhama Bhabhishree to share the Parijata tree with Rukmini Bhabhishree as well."

Vijaya raised a brow. "And Bhama Bhabhishree agreed?" A soft laugh escaped Subhadra. "Reluctantly," she admitted. "For weeks, she resented sharing any of Brata's gifts, especially with Rukmini Bhabhishree."

Vijaya shook her head with a smile. "That must have been a difficult time."

"Oh, it was," Subhadra said, eyes twinkling. "Satyabhama Bhabhishree, ever the clever one, planted the Parijata in Rukmini Bhabhishree's garden but in such a way that its branches stretched over her palace. This meant that while Rukmini Bhabhishree had to care for the tree, Satyabhama Bhabhishree would enjoy its beauty without lifting a finger!"

Vijaya gasped, then burst into laughter. "She did that?"

"She did," Subhadra confirmed. "But Brata, of course, saw through her mischief. To teach her a lesson, he declared that the Parijata would bloom only when he was with Rukmini Bhabhishree." Vijaya's laughter faded into intrigue. "So, whenever Satyabhama Bhabhishree saw the tree in full bloom..."

"She knew Brata was with Rukmini Bhabhishree," Subhadra finished, her voice tinged with amusement. Vijaya smirked. "That must not have pleased her."

Subhadra shook her head, chuckling. "Not at all! She declared that the tree should be placed in her courtyard instead.

Vijaya leaned in. "And what did Brata do then?" Subhadra smiled. "Brata, ever the peacemaker, found a way. He planted the tree so that its roots and trunk lay in Satyabhama Bhabhishree's garden, but its branches stretched over Rukmini Bhabhishree's courtyard, showering her palace with flowers each morning."

Vijaya sighed, shaking her head in wonder. "Your Brata always finds a way, doesn't he? Subhadra smiled, her eyes filled with boundless affection. "Always, Vijaya. Always."

As she finished, a voice interrupted them. "So, Vijaya, what did you understand from this story?" Draupadi's regal presence commanded the space as she stepped forward, her gaze resting on Vijaya with interest.

Vijaya sat straighter, thoughtful for a moment. Then, she spoke, her voice steady yet filled with reverence. "I have heard that Dwarakadeesh is none other than Lord Narayan Himself.

Both Draupadi and Subhadra exchanged knowing smiles at her words. Encouraged, Vijaya continued. "If Brata Shri Krishna is Narayan, then Bhabhishree Rukmini is Mahalakshmi Herself, and Bhabhishree Satyabhama is Bhudevi. That must be why she could strike down Narakasura, as he was destined to perish at the hands of his Mata."

Draupadi's lips curled into a proud smile. "Intelligent girl you are," she praised. Vijaya's eyes gleamed as she went on, her words now weaving a deeper meaning. "So, by planting the Parijata tree in Bhabhishree Satyabhama's garden, the garden of Bhudevi, while ensuring that its flowers would reach the feet of Brata Shri Krishna when offered by Mahalakshmi Herself... I see it as the aspiration of Earth itself, yearning for a divine existence. It is as if the heart of earth-consciousness was made to long for the grace of Narayan, to surrender, to bloom in devotion, and to transform into something celestial.

Silence enveloped them. Subhadra's lips parted slightly, yet no words came to her. She had never thought of the story in such a way. Draupadi, too, found herself momentarily speechless. Vijaya's words were profoundly stirring, a profound and beautiful insight that left them both awed.

A gentle breeze swayed the trees as if whispering its approval. The golden sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting a divine glow upon Vijaya's face.

Subhadra finally exhaled a soft, reverent sigh. "What a way to perceive it..." she murmured, her heart swelling with admiration. Draupadi stepped forward, placing a hand on Vijaya's shoulder. "You do not just listen, Vijaya. You absorb, you contemplate, and you see beyond the surface. That is a rare gift."

Vijaya lowered her gaze, humbled. Subhadra smiled warmly. "Perhaps this is why destiny brought you to us." Vijaya looked up, her heart full of joy. "Or perhaps I was always meant to belong here," she said softly.

Draupadi and Subhadra glanced at each other before Draupadi pulled Vijaya into a gentle embrace. The Parijata story had ended, but something far more beautiful had bloomed at that moment: a bond rooted in wisdom, nourished by love, and destined to flourish for eternity.

The Dawn of the Rajasuya

The golden rays of the sun painted Indraprastha in hues of prosperity. The kingdom, once built from barren land, now flourished under Yudhishthira's righteous rule. Protected by Dharma, shielded by justice, and upheld by truth, its people were free to perform their duties without fear or oppression.

Trade routes brimmed with merchants, their caravans overflowing with riches earned through fair means. The farmers reaped harvests more bountiful than ever as the clouds poured rain in perfect measure, neither too little nor too much. Cattle grazed in lush pastures, multiplying in numbers, their contented lowing a testament to the land's abundance. Thieves and dacoits had become myths in bedtime stories, for none dared to disrupt the reigned harmony. Even the lowest of the king's servants spoke no falsehood, for the governance was just, and the people mirrored their ruler.

The wealth accumulated through Dharma was vast and immeasurable, even if one spent a century trying to deplete it. Sitting upon his throne, Yudhishthira gazed over his ministers, warriors, and sages, his mind deep in contemplation. The thought had been brewing within him, growing stronger each day. The kingdom flourished, but what was its ultimate purpose?

The answer came to him like a whisper carried by the wind: the Rajasuya Yagna. The sacrifice would cement the kingdom's supremacy, not through conquest but through divine recognition.

As if in response to his unspoken resolve, the air of Indraprastha buzzed with a new kind of anticipation. The streets lined up with eager eyes, hearts pounding with devotion, waiting for the arrival of the one whose name alone was enough to make the soul feel weightless—Shri Krishna.

A thunderous symphony of chariots, neighing horses, and the rhythmic beat of war drums signalled his arrival. At the helm of a grand procession, Krishna rode with effortless grace, his divine presence like the first monsoon rain upon parched earth. He had placed his father, Anakadundubhi Vasudeva, in charge of his forces and had personally come, bringing vast riches as offerings for his Brata Yudhishthira.

As his chariot entered the city, Indraprastha seemed to exhale in relief, as if a missing piece of its soul had returned. The people rejoiced, for their beloved Madhava was here. It was as if a land shrouded in darkness had been blessed with the sun's first rays or a windless forest had suddenly felt the gentle caress of a breeze.

Yudhishthira, radiant with joy, stepped forward to receive him. He bowed deeply, offering Krishna the homage he deserved, not merely as a ruler greeting an ally but as a soul bowing before its very source of strength.

Once the greetings and pleasantries had passed, and Krishna had been seated with honour, the assembly of wisdom gathered—Dhoumya, Dwaipayana Vyasa, Vasusena, Bhishma Pitamah, Vidura Kakashree, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva. The air grew heavier, solemn with the weight of what was about to be discussed.

Speaking with the humility of a true king, Yudhishthira turned to Krishna and said, "Janardhana, the entire earth rests under my rule because of you. The prosperity of Indraprastha, the wealth that overflows from my coffers, and the peace that blesses my people are due to you and Niyati's grace. Through your favour, I have acquired great riches, but what use is wealth if it does not serve a higher cause?"

His voice carried an unwavering resolve as he continued, "As is prescribed by Dharma, I wish to devote this fortune to the welfare of the Brahmanas and the sacred sacrificial fire. With my elder and younger brothers as my companions, I seek your permission to undertake the Rajasuya Yagna. I can think of no one else more deserving than you to be instated at its forefront. If you permit this, my soul will be unburdened of sin. If not, then at least grant us, my brother and I, permission to proceed, for with your blessing, this sacrifice will be sanctified."

His words were not just a request but a plea from a heart that understood duty beyond kingship, power beyond wealth, and devotion beyond mere rituals. Krishna, the ever-smiling, listened patiently. Deep like the cosmic ocean, his eyes gleamed with an understanding far beyond mortal comprehension.

A moment of silence stretched between them. Then, in a voice as calm as the waters of the Yamuna, Krishna spoke, "Brata Yudhishthira, you are a universal emperor by Dharma and a deservingly perfect sacrifice. All you seek to accomplish when you perform it and obtain its fruits will unfold naturally. Do not hesitate." His smile softened, his words laced with both affection and reverence. "You are my dearest friend, and I am always concerned about your welfare. Assign me whatever task you see fit, and I shall fulfil it with my heart and soul. Your victory is already written in the fabric of destiny; now walk the path and claim it."

His words fell like celestial nectar upon the hearts of those present. It was more than just permission; it was an assurance, a promise from the very architect of fate.

Yudhishthira's heart swelled with certainty. The moment Krishna spoke, all doubt vanished, replaced by an unshakable faith in the righteousness of his path. He took a deep breath, bowing his head once more in gratitude. "With you beside me, Janardhana, I know my resolution will be fulfilled. Success is assured." With Krishna's blessing secured, preparations for the Rajasuya Yagna commenced, setting in motion events that would alter the course of history itself.

As the echoes of Yudhishthira's command faded, Vasusena's voice rang firm and unwavering: "It is done." His absolute yet humble authority sent the gathered men a silent admiration. The eldest Pandava, constantly vigilant, had ensured that no necessity was overlooked. The sacred halls of Indraprastha, where Dharma reigned supreme, were soon abuzz with preparations for the grand Rajasuya Yagna.

After receiving the king's command, the Kulguru, Dhoumya, meticulously listed the sacred offerings required for the ceremonies. Yudhishthira turned to his closest and most trusted men. "Indrasena, Vishoka, and Puru," his gaze settled on them with the weight of responsibility. "The food for this Yagna must be of the highest quality. Every item should be rich in fragrance and taste, fit to delight the hearts of the Brahmanas. Jyeshta! Ensure that no wish remains unfulfilled." Vasusena, the eldest, nodded with a calm assurance. "The arrangements have been completed," he declared, a quiet yet firm pride lacing his voice.

As the preparations unfolded like a perfectly orchestrated symphony, the great sage Dwaipayana Vyasa appointed the officiating priests. They were no ordinary men but luminaries who embodied the very essence of the Vedas. Veda Vyasa himself took the position of the Brahman, Susama took up the sacred chants of the Sama Veda, and the illustrious Yajnavalka assumed the role of Adhvaryu. Paila, the learned son of Vasu, stood as the hotar, guided by the unwavering wisdom of Dhoumya. Around them, their sons and disciples, shining in the knowledge of the Vedas and Vedangas, prepared for the momentous rituals ahead.

Yudhishthira's voice carried once more, firm yet touched with reverence. "Sahadeva, send forth swift messengers to every kingdom. No soul, high or low, should be left uninvited. Let kings, landlords, Vaishyas, and the revered Shudrah assemble in our halls. This is a yagna of Dharma, and all who seek righteousness shall find a place in our midst."

With unwavering obedience, Sahadeva dispatched the summons. Across the vast lands of Bharata, the call to Indraprastha resounded, reaching kings, nobles, and scholars alike.

On the chosen day, the air thrummed with sacred hymns. Yudhishthira, devoted to Dharma, stood at the heart of the sacrificial ground, surrounded by a vast assembly of learned Brahmanas, his valiant brothers, wise counsellors, and Kshatriyas who had journeyed from distant lands. As the rituals commenced, he seemed no less than the embodiment of Dharma, the weight of righteousness resting on his shoulders.

Brahmanas flocked in thousands from every direction, their wisdom a radiant light in the sacred space. Their lodging had been prepared meticulously—each dwelling adorned with rich fabrics, filled with abundant food, and stocked with delicate garments. Honoured and revered, they spent their time in joyous discourse, weaving tales of yore and delighting in the performances of actors and dancers.

The air was alive with an unceasing, jubilant chorus:

"Give! Give!"

"Eat! Eat!"

The kingdom overflowed with generosity as Yudhishthira distributed thousands of cattle, gold, luxurious beds, and women of exceptional virtue and beauty. As the grand Rajasuya Yagna took form, it mirrored the celestial sacrifices performed in the heavens, where Indra himself stood as the sovereign of the gods.

To ensure that all who mattered bore witness to this grand occasion, Yudhishthira entrusted Nakula with a sacred task. "Go to Hastinapur, Anuj," he commanded. Bring our elders, including Guru Drona, King Dritarashtra, Guru Kripa, and all those bound to us by blood and duty.

Nakula set forth with a swift heart, his duty clear. When he reached Hastinapur, he stood before Dritarashtra, the blind king whose mind was often veiled in the shadows of doubt. The news of the Rajasuya Yagna reached him like a searing blade. He had always known Yudhishthira was destined for greatness—but this? This scale of magnificence? His heart twisted with an ache he dared not name.

Gandhari, serene and ever-righteous, rose without hesitation. "We shall go," she said, a quiet pride lacing her tone. She called forth the women of the royal household to accompany her—but as she turned, her heart sank. Only one stepped forward.

Rajkumari Durshrita of Kalinga. The same woman who had once cursed Yudhishthira now stood as the lone daughter-in-law willing to follow Gandhari. A sigh escaped her lips, the weight of unspoken emotions pressing against her chest. Even as they set out, a silent void lingered in her heart.

Yet, across the lands, others journeyed with eagerness. Kings and chieftains, lords and warriors, each bearing gifts of immeasurable worth, made their way to Indraprastha.

As the assembled guests entered Indraprastha, a reception of the highest honour awaited them. Dritarashtra, blind yet perceptive, was received with solemn dignity. By his side, his sons entered in grand processions, with Suyodhana at the forefront, his eyes burning with emotion only he understood.

Among them came warriors of unparalleled might—Drona, Kripa, and the fierce Ashwatthama, his presence a silent storm. Shakuni, the cunning lord of Gandara, arrived with a measured gaze, while Bhagadatta of Pragjyotisha, clad in his renowned armour, loomed like an unshaken mountain.

Shalya, the formidable king of Madra, stood tall among the assembled kshatriyas, as did the legendary Bahlika, his lineage tracing back to the very roots of the Kuru dynasty. Kings from the lands of Kalinga, Vanga, and Pundra bore treasures of the earth, their caravans glimmering with jewels and gold. Even the distant rulers of Andhrakas, Dravidas, and Simhalas made their presence known, their loyalty to the Pandavas a testament to Indraprastha's rising glory.

A new era had begun.

Amidst the sea of noblemen and wise sages, amidst the grandeur of gold and the fragrance of sacred fire, the echoes of destiny resounded. And yet, in the heart of it all, unseen beneath the weight of celebration, silent envy simmered, waiting to rise like a tempest in the coming days.

The grand city of Indraprastha, bathed in golden sunlight, stood adorned with celestial beauty as it welcomed kings, sages, and noble guests from every direction. On Yudhishthira's command, magnificent dwelling houses were assigned to the visiting monarchs, each constructed with the splendour of divine craftsmanship.

The young Rajkumar Yaudheya oversaw the reception, ensuring that every king received the utmost honour. As the royal guests approached their residences, their eyes widened in awe. The houses, towering like the peaks of Kailasa, gleamed with pristine white walls, their brilliance visible from a yojana away.

The floors were paved with precious stones, reflecting light in dazzling patterns. The walls, lined with golden nets, shimmered under the warm glow of lamps. Expensive seats and carpets invited comfort, while gentle stairs led to grand chambers adorned with garlands and fragrant aloe. The doors, made of intricately forged metals, stood wide and welcoming, promising luxury and ease.

After settling into these divine abodes, the assembled rulers took respite from their long journeys. Yet, the lure of the grand Yagna drew them towards the main sabha, where Dharma's beloved son presided over a gathering that rivalled Indra's celestial court.

Yudhishthira sat amidst an assembly of great sages, venerable Brahmanas, and illustrious kings. The air vibrated with the solemnity of rituals and the generosity of unending donations. The king of Indraprastha, radiant with humility, ensured no guest was left unhonoured.

When he saw his Tatshree, Dritarashtra, his heart swelled with reverence. He bowed deeply before the elder with folded hands and then turned to the great preceptors—Drona, Kripa, and Ashwatthama. "Revered ones," he spoke with unwavering devotion, "this Yagna is yours as much as mine. My riches, my offerings, all belong to you. Bestow your kindness upon me and accept all you desire without constraint."

The wise preceptors, touched by his humility, nodded in solemn acknowledgement. The eldest of the Pandavas, Vasusena, had already taken his rightful place in the grand sacrifice, upholding the sanctity of the rites. Without delay, Yudhishthira appointed the dignitaries with responsibilities befitting their stature.

Duhsasana was placed in charge of the elaborate feast and entertainment. Ashwatthama was entrusted with tending to the revered Brahmanas. Sanjaya oversaw the reception of the visiting monarchs. Bhishma and Drona, paragons of wisdom, were given the authority to dictate what must and must not be done. Kripa was tasked with protecting and distributing gold, coins, and jewels. The sons of Gandhari were also entrusted with various responsibilities, ensuring the flawless execution of the Rajasuya Yagna.

The atmosphere soon transformed into one of divine revelry. Kings such as Bahlika, Dritarashtra, Somadatta, and Jayadratha partook in the feast as if they were lords of the grand city itself.

Vidura, ever-wise and virtuous, oversaw the treasury, ensuring no wealth remained unaccounted for. Standing tall with pride, Suyodhana received the tributes brought from distant lands. No offering was less than a thousand in value, for every kingdom wished to outdo the other in their devotion to the great Yudhishthira. "Let the Kuru attain the completion of Yagna through my wealth alone!" proud monarchs declared as they lavished Indraprastha with immeasurable riches.

The spectacle was unmatched—chariots lined the magnificent streets, standing like sentinels before opulent mansions. The guards, adorned in gleaming armour, patrolled the city's periphery, ensuring the safety of all who had gathered. The Brahmanas, scholars, and ascetics marvelled at the architectural grandeur, likening it to the divine city of Amaravati.

Yudhishthira stood at its centre as the sacrifice proceeded, a beacon of generosity and Dharma. The Yagna fire roared with divine intensity, consuming offerings of clarified butter and sacred libations. The chants of mantras, recited by the most erudite of sages, resonated through the heavens, invoking blessings upon the land.

The wealth of Indraprastha was boundless, comprising gold, jewels, and rare treasures that filled its vast halls. The city rivalled Varuna's domain in prosperity. The food was plentiful, and no one went hungry.

Every guest, participant, and attendee found their hearts filled—not merely with material wealth, but with the immeasurable satisfaction of witnessing the Dharma in its purest form. As the gods were gratified, so were the Brahmanas. And as the Brahmanas rejoiced, so did the entire realm. The Rajasuya Yagna of Yudhishthira was not merely an offering but a celebration of righteousness—a testament to an era when virtue ruled supreme.

The Fire of Envy

The air within the sacrificial enclosure was thick with the scent of sacred offerings and the low murmur of learned voices. The maharishis Narada, Atri, and Vashishtha sat at the altar, their presence luminous like divine beacons guiding the proceedings. The rajarshis, kings whose wisdom rivalled their valour, seated themselves in solemn dignity.

As the rituals unfolded, the scholars engaged in intense discussion. "This is the right way," one proclaimed with conviction.

"No, that is not the correct way," another countered.

"There is no other path except this!" a third voice declared, unwavering.

The atmosphere bristled with intellectual fervour. Some wielded their knowledge like a blade, making the weak seem strong; others, with equal mastery, made the strong appear weak, invoking scriptures as weapons in this battle of wits. Debates raged like the winds before a storm, arguments torn apart as swiftly as hawks striking at flesh in mid-air.

These were not mere words; they were the foundations upon which Dharma and Artha stood. Some, well-versed in the Vedas, invoked ancient wisdom; others delighted in recounting tales that carried hidden truths. Encircling the altar, gods, Brahmanas, and sages bore witness, their celestial knowledge shining like constellations in the clear night sky. No vowless soul was permitted near this sanctum of Yudhishthira's sacrifice. Purity, discipline, and devotion reigned supreme.

As the grandeur of the Rajasuya unfolded, Narada's keen eyes swept over the assembly of Kshatriyas. A realization dawned upon him as a memory from Brahma's abode resurfaced. He had heard whispers of an ancient decree: the gods had descended in human form, drawn into this mortal play by the inexorable will of fate.

His gaze rested on Krishna. "Narayana himself... born in Yadu's lineage to uphold his divine pledge," Narada mused. His mind wandered to the words once spoken by the Creator himself: "You will regain your worlds only after slaying one another."

The prophecy was in motion. The greatest warriors, bound by fate, were drawn into an impending storm, unaware of the threads woven by destiny's hands. Krishna, the supreme among the Vrishnis, shone with an ethereal radiance, his mere presence akin to the moon amidst a sky of lesser stars. Indra himself had bowed to his strength. He, the wielder of Sudarshana, had taken mortal form to bring balance to a world teetering on the brink of chaos. Narada exhaled, his heart heavy with what was to come. The Self-Creator will himself take away these mighty Kshatriyas. He knew the truth. And yet, the mortals before him revelled in their victories, unaware they were merely pieces upon the celestial board.

From his seat of wisdom, Devavrata Bhishma turned to Yudhishthira. "Let the kings be honoured as they deserve," he declared. "A preceptor, a priest, a relative, a learned scholar, a friend, and a king—these six are always deserving of offerings. One who has stayed beyond a year under one's roof also earns this honour. These kings have been here a long time. An Arghya must be offered to them. And the first one..."

Yudhishthira inclined his head in reverence. "Pitamah, whom do you consider the most deserving of the first Arghya?"

Bhishma's gaze swept across the gathering, searching for the one whose presence eclipsed all others. The answer was clear. "Krishna Vasudeva." The murmurs died into an expectant silence. "Among all gathered here, he blazes with his energy, strength, and valour—like the sun among the stars. His presence illuminated this sacrifice, just as the sun brightens the sky and the wind breathes life into a still land."

Yudhishthira nodded in understanding, and with Bhishma's decree, Sahadeva carried the sacred offering to Krishna with unwavering devotion. Murari accepted the honour with humility and divine grace, following the holy rites.

But not all in the assembly rejoiced. A sharp laugh, laced with contempt, shattered the solemn air. Shishupala, king of Chedi, rose from his seat, his eyes burning with uncontained rage. "This is an outrage!" he spat.

The murmurs resumed, now carrying an undercurrent of unease. "Bhishma, you, who boast of dharma, who abandoned a woman for your vow, now stand here, decreeing who is worthy and who is not?" Shishupala's voice dripped with scorn. "You forsook Amba, and now you forsake wisdom by bestowing this honour upon Krishna?"

His words struck the assembly like arrows. "And you, Yudhishthira," Shishupala sneered, "you, who claim to be the upholder of Dharma, dare to perform this Rajasuya, yet your eldest, Vasusena, leads your army; he is no true heir! And what of Arjuna's wife? The woman who won by one but claimed by five? Is this your righteousness?"

A hush fell over the hall. The insult hung in the air, daring a response. All eyes turned to Krishna. The lord of Dwaraka sat unperturbed, his smile untouched by anger, his gaze steady. The storm had begun. And Krishna, the weaver of fate, was ready. "When so many great lords of the earth are present here, how does Krishna deserve to be worshipped?" Shishupala's voice dripped with disdain as he glared at Yudhishthira. "Yudhishthira, this honour you have shown to Krishna is not worthy of you! You Pandavas, mere children in matters of dharma, have erred grievously. Do you think yourselves wise? Do you even understand propriety?"

His gaze flickered to Bhishma, the grandsire. "And Bhishma! You, who know Dharma better than any, have acted out of blind favouritism today. You stand accused before the assembly of honest men! Have you abandoned wisdom?"

A sneer curled his lips as he looked back at Krishna. "This man from Dasharna is not even a king! And yet, you have placed him above rulers? How does he deserve such an honour when Vasudeva, his father, stands here? Or do you honour Krishna because he serves your interests?" He turned his attention toward Drupada. "If you sought a benefactor, should you not have honoured King Drupada instead?"

His tone grew sharper. "If Krishna were your preceptor, would he deserve homage over Drona? If he were a sacrificial priest, would he deserve honour above Maharishi Veda Vyasa, Atri, or Vashishtha? Tell me, Pandavas—what is he, if not your favoured one?"

The silence in the hall was thick, the insult hanging heavy in the air. Shishupala's voice grew thunderous, contempt flashing in his eyes. "If Krishna was to be worshipped above all, why did you call these kings here? Merely to insult them? Have you summoned us to be humiliated?"

He did not stop there. His bitterness ran deep, and his anger boiled over as he turned to the kings in the sabha. "We did not pay tribute to you, Yudhishthira, out of fear, greed, or weakness. We did it because Dharma dictated it for an emperor. Yet, today, you spit on Dharma itself!" His words lashed like a whip.

His gaze locked onto Krishna, his hatred laid bare. "Krishna has no marks of royalty! He has no throne, no kingdom, no lineage of emperors! And yet, he is worshipped as if he is the foremost among us. This is an insult! The world believed you, Yudhishthira, to be the upholder of Dharma. But today, your so-called righteousness crumbles like dust!" His voice turned venomous. "This is your meanness, your weakness, your disgrace!" He spat the words like poison. "Madhava! If the Pandavas were too meek, too frightened to defy you, you should have refused this undeserved homage! Why did you accept it?" A cruel smirk played on his lips. "Like a starving dog that finds sacrificial ghee, you have lapped up this honour! It does not belong to you, but you devour it in greed! This is not only an insult to the kings of Aryavarta, but it also exposes your true nature!"

He laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. "Krishna, you are no king. This honour given to you is like a wife to the impotent, a beautiful sight to the blind—utterly wasted!" He turned his fiery gaze back to Yudhishthira, then to Bhishma, and finally, once more to Krishna. "We have seen what kind of king Yudhishthira is. We have seen what kind of Dharma Bhishma follows. We have seen what kind of man Krishna truly is. We have seen everything exactly as it is!" With those words, Shishupala rose from his seat, his arrogance towering over the silence of the sabha. He turned and strode out, his insult still echoing in the air, followed by the kings who supported him, leaving behind an assembly shaken to its core.

As Shishupala stormed away from the grand assembly, his words laced with venom against Krishna still echoing in the hall, Yudhishthira, the just and righteous king, hurried after him. His voice, though firm, carried the soothing cadence of an elder brother trying to reason with a wayward sibling.

"Brata Shishupala," Yudhishthira called, his measured steps closing the distance between them. "The words you have spoken, do you not see how they violate Dharma? They are cruel, devoid of purpose, and unbecoming of a king. Gangaputra Bhishma, the grandsire of our lineage, does not err in the supreme Dharma. To insult him in vain is to insult wisdom itself." Yudhishthira's gaze swept across the gathered kings, their expressions ranging from solemn acceptance to barely veiled amusement at Shishupala's outburst. "Look around you," he gestured. "These great lords of the earth, men older and wiser than you, have all accepted the homage given to Krishna. Do you think yourself greater than them? Even Pitamah Bhishma, who has seen the passage of ages and witnessed the play of destiny, recognizes Krishna's true nature. Yet you, in your ignorance, claim to know better?"

Shishupala, his pride pricked, sneered but said nothing. His eyes burned with defiance, but a more profound, weightier voice cut through the tense air before he could retort.

Bhishma, the grandsire, rose from his seat. His form, towering even in age, exuded the gravitas of one who had walked the earth long enough to see the truth beyond illusions. His voice was calm, yet it carried the weight of divine knowledge. "Krishna is the oldest in the world," Bhishma declared, his eyes locking onto Shishupala's with an intensity that brooked no argument. "One who does not accept the homage given to them—such a person deserves neither kindness nor conciliation."

His voice hardened. "A true kshatriya among warriors does no one the honour due to one who has bested him. Look around you, O King of Chedi! In this grand assembly, is there any ruler who has not faced Krishna's might in battle? Kings have fallen to his prowess, one after another, yet he granted them their lives. Such a man is not merely a warrior—he is a preceptor on the battlefield of life."

Though restrained, Bhishma's words carried the force of undeniable truth. "Not only is Achyuta deserving of this homage, but he is also worthy of the reverence of all three worlds. He has defeated countless warriors, yet he remains untouched by pride. The entire universe, its creation and dissolution, is held within him, O Shishupala. Do you not see?"

The kings in the court nodded in agreement, their expressions reflecting their reverence for Krishna. Bhishma's voice softened, but it did not lose its authority. "We did not honour Janardana out of favouritism, nor out of kinship, nor in hope of reward. We honoured him because he embodies valour, wisdom, and divine might."

He then turned his piercing gaze upon Shishupala, his words like an ancient prophecy unfolding. "You call yourself a king, yet you fail to see what even the youngest in this hall understands. We passed over many who were great in age and wisdom, yet Hari stood beyond all. Among Brahmanas, he is the most knowledgeable; among Kshatriyas, the mightiest in battle. Both are reasons enough to worship him."

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with the enormity of Bhishma's pronouncement. But he was not yet done. "Tell me, Shishupala—who among men is as distinguished as Keshava? In him resides generosity, skill, learning, valour, modesty, unwavering intellect, beauty, patience, contentment, and prosperity. He is the father, the teacher, the preceptor. Is there another who is worthier?" Bhishma's voice rang like a temple bell, shaking the very air. "He is the sun, the moon, the planets, the sky, the earth, and the breath of the universe. All are established in him. Yet you, in your ignorance, speak against him? A child playing with the waves cannot grasp the ocean's depths, so it is with you, O King of Chedi."

His final words, though spoken softly, fell like thunder. "If you still believe that Krishna does not deserve this honour, do as you see fit." A long silence followed. The court watched, waiting. Then, amidst the gathered Pandavas, another voice rose—sharp and unyielding.

Sahadeva, the youngest of the Pandavas, stepped forward, his expression unreadable, his stance unshaken. When he spoke, his words carried a fire that burned through the tension in the air. "If there is any king here who cannot tolerate the homage shown to Keshava," Sahadeva said, his voice unflinching, "then let him step forward."

He moved purposefully, firmly placing his foot on the ground as if stamping his will upon fate. "I place my foot on the heads of those who believe Krishna is undeserving. If you find my words offensive, then challenge me. Let those who have the strength answer me now."

A ripple of unease spread through the assembly. The challenge was bold, bordering on reckless—but Sahadeva did not waver. His eyes burned with the conviction that only absolute faith could bring. No king dared to move. No voice rose in opposition. Even Shishupala, so quick to rage, was held in the crushing silence of the undeniable truth.

Seated in calm radiance, Krishna watched it all with a knowing smile. He needed no defence, for Dharma had spoken through Bhishma and Sahadeva. At that moment, the assembly knew—their homage had been given not out of fear or obligation but out of recognition of divinity itself.

Shishupala's lips curled in suppressed fury, but he could say no more. The weight of Dharma bore down upon him, undeniable and unshakable. The court had spoken. And Krishna, ever the silent witness, merely watched—his eyes reflecting the infinite play of destiny.



Note:

Some texts mention that Sahadeva married Vijaya during the Digvijaya Yatra, while others place their union before Khandavadahan. The original Mahabharata only briefly mentions that Sahadeva married Vijaya without providing details. Given this ambiguity, I have taken the creative liberty to incorporate this aspect meaningfully into the narrative.

Many of you have been eagerly asking about Niyati's awakening—rest assured, she will awaken soon. Be patient. Her return is not just a moment but a turning point; it will unfold with due significance. As you all know, Draupadi's children are no ordinary beings in this retelling. They, too, have pivotal roles, and their impact will shape the course of events in ways yet to be revealed.

The Rajasuya Yagna has been portrayed as described in the texts. The only addition I have made is the inclusion of Rajkumari Kalinga, which deepens the narrative and enriches the unfolding events.

The Parijata incident occurred during Narakasura's downfall, but we had previously missed depicting that moment. I had always wanted to incorporate it into the narrative, and finally, it found its place—woven seamlessly through Vijaya's perspective. Her interpretation of the Parijata story adds depth, allowing it to be more than just an event from Krishna's past; it symbolises longing, divinity, and belonging in the present tale.