That night, the humble abode of the Pandavas was cloaked in a stillness that was anything but ordinary. Decisions and paths were chosen, yet no one knew how to walk on this unfamiliar road. A relationship unlike any other had been forged, yet the weight of its reality loomed over them, unspoken but felt by all.

The air carried an unease that lingers when hearts hesitate to embrace fate.

Vasusena, ever the anchor in the storm, finally broke the silence.

"I, along with my brothers, will rest outside tonight," he declared, his voice steady, leaving no room for debate. "Rajkumari Krishnaa, you and Mata may sleep within. We shall depart Tomorrow after my brothers have completed their duties as Brahmanas one last time. In the meantime, Yuyutsu will inform Pitamah of the events so he can speak with your father."

Krishnaa's gaze lowered momentarily, doubt flickering in her eyes, "I do not know if Pitashree will ever agree to this."

Yuyutsu, who had remained silent until then, finally spoke, his voice carrying both the weight of wisdom and the gentleness of a brother.

"No father would wish to see his daughter shared among five men, Rajkumari. It is not an easy truth to accept. It is painful and unnatural in the eyes of the current society. But Dharma is not shaped by what the world understands—it is upheld by those who walk its path despite the weight it places upon them. And if Dharma stands witness to your fate, trust in Narayana. 'Dharmo Rakshati Rakshitah'—Dharma protects those who protect it."

A solemn silence followed before a soft smile touched Yudhishthira's lips. He regarded Yuyutsu with newfound respect.

"This line of yours, Brata, defines more than just this moment. It defines everything."

Yuyutsu merely bowed his head in acknowledgement.

The heavy air lifted slightly but left Nakula to pierce the moment with his mischief, "Has anyone noticed," he smirked, "that Brata Yuyutsu speaks to Krishnaa as though he is her father? I swear, he has never spoken to us in this manner."

Laughter rippled through the group, breaking the last remnants of tension. Krishnaa blushed, but Yuyutsu remained unshaken.

"The moment Mata decreed that she shall be shared among all of you," he said, his voice firm, "I ceased to see her as anything but my daughter."

Silence. A silence so profound that the wind itself seemed to pause.

Shock flickered across their faces—except for Krishnaa. She looked at Yuyutsu, searching his expression for jest, but found none. He meant every word.

Then, before anyone could respond, Yuyutsu's smirk returned, "So be warned," he said lightly, though his eyes carried a glint of something more profound, "If any of you bring tears to her eyes, do not expect me to take it lightly."

Laughter returned, but beneath it, the truth of his words settled within them all.

Yet, Yuyutsu was not finished.

He stepped forward, standing before Krishnaa, his voice now low but unyielding.

"I am with you, always," he said, each word carrying the weight of a promise that would never break. "And so is Narayan. Pray to him even in your darkest times, even when the world turns against you. The day you feel everything is lost, close your eyes, call his name, and he will be there."

Krishnaa felt her breath hitch.

Yuyutsu continued, his gaze unwavering, "And if ever you need a brother, if the weight of this path becomes too much to bear, turn to Jyeshta Vasusena. Trust me, he will stand against the entire world for you."

Krishnaa swallowed, overwhelmed.

"But if you need to speak to a father," Yuyutsu added, his tone softening, "if you need to rant, be heard, seek shelter, feel safe, feel loved—come to me, Krishnaa. I will never turn you away."

A hush fell over the gathering.

Tears welled in Krishnaa's eyes, unbidden but pure, and she let them fall, not from sorrow nor helplessness, but from something more profound—from the love she had just been given, from the knowledge that no matter what lay ahead, she was not alone.

She looked at Yuyutsu, her heart full, and whispered the only words that could suffice, "Dhanyavaad, Brata."

And in that moment, in the quiet warmth of their shared fate, she knew—this was family.

A Father's Desperation

The morning sun rose gently over the horizon, casting golden hues upon the humble dwelling of the Pandavas. The quiet air carried the weight of what had transpired the previous day, and yet, the world had moved forward, indifferent to the dilemmas of men.

Bhima and Arjuna, as was their daily practice, set out towards the potter's house to collect alms. Unbeknownst to them, Rajkumar Dhrishtadyumna of Panchala followed his curiosity, a burning flame that refused to be extinguished. Dismissing his attendants, he concealed himself in the shadows, watching, waiting, seeking the truth behind these men who had so effortlessly defied fate.

Time passed, and the brothers returned, now accompanied by the twins. Their hands bore the meagre offerings of the morning's alms, yet they carried it joyfully as though they had brought home a king's feast. Upon reaching their abode, they laid their collection before Yudhishthira, their hearts as light as their hands were full.

Soft-spoken and ever-wise, Kunti turned to Krishnaa with the gentle authority of a mother.

"Draupadi," she said, both instructive and kind, "first, offer a portion to the gods, for what is received must be given in gratitude. Then, seek out a Brahmana and give him alms, for virtue lies in serving those who dedicate their lives to knowledge. Feed people in need, for hunger knows no station, and provide for the men surrounding us. Only then, my child, may we take our share. Divide the remainder into two—one part for Bhima, for this dark-skinned, lion-hearted warrior eats as one who carries the burden of battles upon his shoulders. The other, share amongst us all."

Hearing these words, profound in their simplicity, Krishnaa smiled. She obeyed without hesitation, without doubt, for her heart found wisdom in the ways of this noble woman who had embraced her as a daughter.

And so, the household ate, not as exiles or royalty but as a family bound together by fate's decree.

Vasusena, who remained silent, finally said, "Yuyutsu has already left for Pitamah. I, too, must go and ensure that all is in place. We shall meet at the destined hour. Until then, take rest."

With those words, Vasusena departed. Yet, unseen in the shadows, Dhrishtadyumna watched, suspicion curling around his thoughts. Who was this man, and why did he hold such command over these wandering Brahmanas? Could they be—? He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. The truth had to be sought, not assumed.

Inside the dwelling, Sahadeva moved swiftly, spreading a bed of kusha grass upon the ground. Each warrior, accustomed to the bare earth as their resting place, unfurled their deerskin and lay down, their heads turned towards the blessed direction of Agastya. Their bodies rested, but their spirits remained ever-watchful, as did those who had lived with hardship as their companion.

Kunti lay near their heads, a silent guardian of her sons. Krishnaa lay at their feet—not in submission, not in servitude, but as one who had surrendered herself to destiny, without fear, without grief. She did not feel indignity in resting upon the ground beside them, nor did she consider it a slight to share space with those whom fate had bound her to. Instead, there was only acceptance—calm, resolute, unwavering.

As sleep eluded them, the night was filled with hushed voices—whispers of wars fought and yet to come, of celestial weapons that could reshape the tides of battle, of chariots that thundered across the heavens, of swords that sang through the air, of elephants that charged like storms, of clubs and battle-axes that had decided the fates of men.

Dhrishtadyumna listened, unseen and unheard. Every word they spoke confirmed his suspicions. They were no mere Brahmanas. Their speech carried the weight of warriors; men forged in fire, and those who had seen battle not as a distant tale but as a lived reality.

His heart pounded. He had heard enough.

Turning swiftly, he left the shadows and rushed back to his father.

At the palace, Raja Drupada sat in anticipation, his mind restless, his thoughts circling the unknown. As Dhrishtadyumna entered, urgency written upon his face, Drupada's heart sank.

"Where is Krishnaa?" he demanded, his voice sharp with worry. "Who has taken her away? Tell me, my son, was it a Shudra, a man of low birth? Has a Vaishya, a mere merchant who bends his knee to kings, placed his foot upon my head? Has my daughter's garland been tossed away upon a cremation ground? Speak! Was she claimed by one from our varna or a higher station? Or—" his voice faltered for the first time, his breath unsteadies, "or has an unworthy man defiled my honour?"

The weight of his words hung heavy in the chamber. His agony was not of a father who had lost his daughter but of a king whose pride trembled on the edge of ruin.

"I will find peace only if she has been united with Partha," he declared, desperation warring with hope. "Tell me truthfully—who has won my daughter? Do the grandsons of Vichitravirya yet live? Is it possible that Partha lifted the bow and struck the target?"

The air in Panchala's grand hall was thick with anticipation, but the silence between father and son was unbearable. Raja Drupada's heart weighed with anguish and could no longer contain his torment. His voice, edged with desperation, broke through the stillness.

"Why are you not saying anything? Tell me something, my son!"

Dhrishtadyumna took a deep breath, steadying himself before he spoke, "Pitashree, the youth who strung the bow and brought down the target, was unlike any other. Handsome beyond mortal measure, his eyes shone red with the intensity of a burning fire. Draped in black deerskin, he stood like a god descended upon this earth. With the ease of one who had mastered the very essence of warfare, he strung that supreme bow struck the target, and then left without a word, unshaken by the commotion he had caused.

I think he was soon joined by his elder brother, a man of noble bearing—and a young woman who might be their sister. He walked as if he had vanquished the very sons of Diti, moving like a celestial being surrounded by divine grace. Krishnaa followed behind him, holding the edge of his deerskin, just as a devoted female elephant followed the majestic bull of the herd. But the kings who had gathered, unable to bear this sight, burned with rage. They surged forward, weapons drawn, determined to stop him.

And then, Pitashree, his brother, maybe an ally—his presence was no less fearsome. He quickly uprooted a massive tree, brandishing it like Yama wielding his justice staff. With terrifying strength, he drove back the assembled kings, scattering them as the wind scattered fallen leaves. The kings, though mighty, could do nothing but watch.

Together, those warriors took Krishnaa and left, their presence luminous like the sun and the moon moving in tandem. They retreated to a potter's house outside the city, shrouded in mystery. I lost sight of them then, but my curiosity would not let me rest. At dawn, I returned, and what I saw confirmed my suspicions.

An older woman sat among them—her demeanour gentle yet regal. Before her, three men sat with quiet strength, like fire embers biding their time to burn. I believe she was their mother. When the two warriors approached her, they bowed deeply, touching her feet in reverence. Then, with equal respect, they also urged Krishnaa to seek her blessings.

I also saw Rajkumar Vasusena with them and Rajkumar Yuyutsu, who left early in the morning. However, their sister was nowhere to be seen. I have already instructed our spies to uncover more about her.

Later, I observed something even more telling. Leaving Krishnaa in the care of the older woman, two men went out to beg for alms. It was Krishnaa who accepted their offerings, and in a manner befitting a queen, she first set aside a portion for the gods, then another for a Brahmana. After fulfilling these sacred duties, she only served a share to the older woman and the six men before finally partaking herself.

And after sometime, Pitashree, they all lay down to sleep together. Krishnaa rested at their feet, like a foot pillow, yet not in servitude, but as one bound to them by fate's decree. Their bed was not of silk nor luxury but of darbha grass, softened only by simple deerskins. But it was not their resting place that struck me—their words, deep as thunderclouds. They spoke of wars, strategies, weapons, divine and mortal. No Vaishya nor Shudra could possess such knowledge. And yet, neither did they talk of Brahminic hymns and rituals.

Pitashree, I have no doubt. These men are not ordinary Brahmanas. They are warriors, foremost among Kshatriyas. How the bow was strung, the target fell, and how they carried themselves is inevitable. These are the sons of Pritha, the lost sons of Pandu, living in disguise."

A tremor passed through Raja Drupada's heart, but it was not fear—joy swelling within him like the tide. His eyes gleamed with an emotion too deep for words. "The sons of Pandu..." he murmured, his voice reverent.

His heart knew what his mind had dared not believe. His hopes, long buried, now stood before him as truth. The boy who had bested all the assembled kings, who had wielded a bow with the strength of the gods themselves—he was none other than Arjuna.

Hearing his son's words, Raja Drupada could not contain his joy. At once, he summoned his trusted priest and gave him urgent instructions. "Go to them. Learn their names and their lineage. If they are indeed the sons of Pandu, bring them to me at once."

The wise and learned priest set forth immediately. Reaching the potter's house, he found the five warriors stirring from their sleep, ready to leave. Even as they stepped out, he approached them with a reverence befitting their hidden stature.

Sahadeva was the first to recognize him. "This is Raja Drupada's priest," he said, calm but alert. Instantly, the brothers stood tall and bowed respectfully.

The priest, filled with warmth and admiration, addressed them, "O noble ones, you are worthy of honour in all things. Raja Drupada, king of Panchala, desires to know who you are. Beholding the hero who brought down the mark, his joy knows no bounds. Come forth and reveal your lineage, for in doing so, you shall place your feet upon the heads of your foes. The king of Panchala and his men shall be gladdened, and his heart shall find peace.

Brahmarshi Pandu was dear to Raja Drupada—he regarded him as his soul. It was his long-cherished dream that his daughter should wed none other than Pandu's son, Vasusena or Arjuna. If this is indeed so, if fate has granted his heart's wish, then nothing could be more fortunate. Nothing could bring more incredible honour, joy, or virtue than this union."

The five brothers exchanged glances, an unspoken understanding passing between them. There was an awkwardness in the air, a shift in their emotions when they heard that Raja Drupada desired Krishnaa to marry either their Jyeshta Vasusena or Arjuna. Something in them stirred—a feeling unnamed, a realization unspoken.

Krishnaa stood slightly apart, her expression unreadable. Kunti stood beside her, silently listening to the priest's words. She understood that nothing could be changed now. Unknowingly, she had paved this path—Mahadev's boon had ensured Krishnaa's fate for a long time. Now, it was for her sons to take the next step. She merely observed, waiting.

Yudhishthira, composed as ever, turned to Bhima and instructed, "Maharaja Drupada's priest is an honoured guest. Let him be received with the utmost respect. Bring water to wash his feet and offer him the hospitality he deserves."

Bhima immediately commanded, bringing water for the priest's feet and presenting the traditional offerings. The priest accepted them with a pleased expression and took his seat with dignity.

Yudhishthira then addressed the Brahmana with calm resolve. "Raja Drupada gave his daughter's hand by his dharma, setting forth a challenge that determined her fate. This brave one has won her fairly, proving his worth by his skill. Thus, no question arises regarding his lineage, occupation, or intent. By his act of stringing the bow and striking the target, all doubts have been dispelled. In the assembly of kings, he has rightfully won Krishnaa. Raja Drupada should not grieve or second-guess his decision, for his long-held wish has been fulfilled. Indeed, his daughter could not have been won by anyone lacking strength, skill, or noble birth. The task itself ensured only the worthiest could claim her hand."

As Yudhishthira spoke, another messenger arrived hastily from the king of Panchala.

Bowing respectfully, he conveyed, "For the joyous occasion of this wedding, Raja Drupada has arranged a grand feast in honour of the bridegroom's party. You are all invited to partake in this celebration. Please come with Rajkumari Krishnaa after completing your daily rituals. Do not delay. The king has sent these chariots adorned with golden lotuses and drawn by the finest horses for your journey. They are worthy of rulers of the earth. Ascend them and proceed swiftly to the palace of the king of Panchala."

A silent exchange of glances passed among the Pandavas. Arjuna, stepping forward, spoke with measured words. "We are grateful for the honour bestowed upon us, but we await the arrival of our family. Kindly grant us a few moments."

Every swift in action, Nakula took up a parchment and quickly penned a letter. He attached it to the leg of a swift messenger bird and released it into the sky. The letter bore a simple yet urgent message—to Jyeshta Vasusena and Pitamah Bhishma, urging them to come to Raja Drupada's palace at once. Raja Drupada had sent for them, and the Pandavas were preparing to leave in the royal chariots with the priests.

Once the message was sent, they turned to their mother. They placed Kunti and Krishnaa onto one of the grand chariots with the utmost care. Then, mounting their own, the brothers ascended their golden-carved vehicles. With the rhythmic pounding of hooves, they departed toward the palace of Raja Drupada, the air thick with the weight of destiny unfolding.

A Question of Righteousness

Bhishma paced restlessly in their abode, his aged yet formidable presence casting a long shadow against the flickering lamps. His sharp and discerning eyes were fixed on the entrance.

At last, Yuyutsu walked in, his steps slow but steady. The moment Bhishma saw him, he moved forward and embraced the young man, his grip firm, his concern evident. "What happened? Why the delay?" Bhishma asked, his voice edged with urgency. "You all could have come last night itself."

Yuyutsu smiled serenely, the wisdom in his eyes belying his youth, "We met them, Pitamah. Brata Yudhishthira insisted that we wait for one night. They had to give away all the alms collected and ensure their responsibilities were fulfilled before they left for Hastinapur."

Bhishma nodded in understanding, yet his impatience remained, "When are they arriving?"

Yuyutsu sighed deeply, his expression changing to one of measured caution, "Pitamah, there is something you all should know."

At his words, Vidura straightened, his shrewd eyes narrowing. Aruni, who had remained in the adjacent chamber, stepped forward. Her presence was quiet but commanding, her focus sharp as an unsheathed blade.

Yuyutsu exhaled and continued, "Yesterday, at the Swayamvar of Rajkumari Krishnaa, the test set for her hand was to string the Kindhura Bow, a divine gift from Agnidev himself. Many mighty kings failed, but a Brahmana among the assembled warriors strung the bow effortlessly and struck the target. That Brahmana, Pitamah, was none other than Arjuna."

Bhishma's stern face softened momentarily, his pride in his grandson's feat evident, but Yuyutsu's expression told him there was more to the tale.

Yuyutsu hesitated before revealing the rest, "After the feat, the brothers returned home and told Kunti Mata they had brought something. Following her usual habit, she commanded them to share it equally without seeing what it was. Thus, Rajkumari Krishnaa is set to marry all five brothers."

The room turned silent, heavy with disbelief. The flickering flames of the lamps did little to dispel the deepening shadows of Bhishma's fury.

"What?" Bhishma thundered, his powerful voice reverberating through the chamber. "How could such a thing be permitted? Why would Kunti say such a thing without knowing what they had brought? Is she out of her mind?"

His hands clenched into fists as he turned to Yuyutsu, his anger seeking an answer, "And how did Yudhishthira—the crown prince of Hastinapur, the embodiment of Dharma—agree to such an outrageous arrangement?"

Yuyutsu, unmoved by Bhishma's fury, stepped closer, his tone calm but firm, "Pitamah, you know the Dharma well, which binds a son to his mother's words. It is unshakable."

Bhishma's voice cut through the air like a blade, "That does not mean a son blindly follows every word a parent utters! Wisdom is knowing when to uphold a word and when to weigh it against righteousness! This is not Dharma, Putr!"

Bhishma stood like a mountain against the tide, his voice unwavering, "This is against Dharma, Yuyutsu. How can a woman be married to five men? Kunti erred gravely in her words, but why should Dharma bend to folly? Yudhishthira, raised under my guidance, should have seen this flaw!"

Yuyutsu remained silent for a moment, carefully choosing his words. He stepped closer to the grandsire, his tone measured, his conviction unshakable.

"Pitamah," he said, "Dharma is not a narrow path laid in stone but a river flowing through the valleys of fate. It has adapted since time, shaped by divine will and human duty. You, the pillar of Dharma, know that no act is righteous or unrighteous in isolation; the circumstances, the intent, and the consequences define it."

Bhishma did not respond immediately, his gaze dark as a gathering storm. Yuyutsu continued, his voice drawing strength from the ancient wisdom he invoked.

"There exists a precedent, Pitamah. Before our time, King Nitantu had five sons—Salveya, Srutasena, Surasena, Tindusara, and Atisara. These were men of honour, bound by their word and their righteousness. They were warriors, wise men, and rulers of virtue. And yet, the noble princess Bhaumasvi, daughter of the great King Sibi, became the wife of all five. Was this not Dharma?

Did the gods look upon their union with disdain? No, Pitamah. The children born of this union founded mighty clans, and their names are etched in history, sanctified by their deeds."

Bhishma's fingers tightened on the silver staff he held, "That was a different age, Yuyutsu. That was another time."

"And yet, Dharma has not perished, nor has it been rewritten," Yuyutsu countered, his voice unwavering. "Even our ancestor, Yayati, bore witness to a woman who walked this path. G gifted with divine purity, Princess Madhavi bore sons for four kings—Haryasva, Divodasa, Ushinara, and even the great sage Vishwamitra. And yet, she remained untouched, regaining her virginity through divine blessing. If the gods themselves deemed this path acceptable, how can we mortals question its sanctity?"

Bhishma narrowed his eyes. "You speak of exceptions, not the rule. A woman is to be bound to one man, Yuyutsu. That is the law, that is Dharma."

"Or is it merely custom, Pitamah?" Yuyutsu asked, his voice quieter but no less resolute.

"Dharma is not a lifeless decree but the very breath of existence. It shifts, bends, adapts. What holds for one era is not always true for another. The moment Krishnaa was won in the Swayamvar, fate had already dictated her path. Kunti's words were the final seal upon what was already destined."

Bhishma exhaled sharply, but Yuyutsu pressed on.

"Tell me, Pitamah, when a father speaks, is it not a son's duty to obey? You have upheld the greatest vow ever known to humanity for the sake of your father. Should not the sons of Kunti honour their mother's words, given not in deceit but in purity? Dharma is not just about adherence to laws but about upholding truth, honour, and the sacred ties of duty. Yudhishthira, above all, is the embodiment of righteousness. Would he have agreed if this union had even a grain of unrighteousness?"

The silence in the chamber was profound. Even Vidura, ever watchful, inclined his head slightly in contemplation. Aruni, standing with quiet grace, let her gaze flicker between the two men, waiting for Bhishma's response.

Bhishma's grip on the wooden door loosened. His gaze softened—not in surrender, but in understanding.

"If this is indeed Dharma, then let it stand the test of time," he finally said. "I do not yet see the full path, but I will not call it Adharma either. If Krishnaa accepts this destiny, if she bears it with dignity, and if no deceit lurks in the shadows of this union—then let fate take its course."

Yuyutsu nodded solemnly. "It is not fate alone, Pitamah. It is Dharma itself, walking in the form of Krishnaa."