The next day, the Kuru family assembled within the great chamber—both the sons of Pandu and the sons of Gandhari. The Pandavas entered with quiet resolve, their hearts steady, for they understood why they had been summoned. But Gandhari's sons walked in with wary eyes, their minds burdened with unspoken questions and an unease they dared not voice.

And then, something unexpected happened.

The towering doors shut with a resounding finality, sealing them in. A hushed energy swept through the chamber as Yuyutsu stepped forward, his presence unusually commanding. With a mere invocation—his voice carrying the weight of wisdom —he wove an unseen barrier around the hall. The air seemed to hum, the walls bound by silence, ensuring that whatever was spoken within would never escape beyond these doors.

Suyodhan's sharp eyes darted between them all. There was no fear in them—only challenge. His voice, steady yet edged with suspicion, broke the silence, "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "Why the secrecy? Why are we locked in like prisoners? Tell me, Yuyutsu—have you devised a scheme to slay us in the shadows?"

Bhima took a single step forward, his voice a controlled storm, "If I wished to kill you, Suyodhana, I would not do it in the shadows. I would do it where the sun bears witness and dharma stands beside me."

"Enough." Bhishma's voice was not raised, yet it carried the weight of an unshaken mountain. The very air seemed still, every soul turning toward him. His presence was not that of a warrior now but that of a sage who had seen lifetimes unfold before his eyes.

"We are not here for bloodshed," Bhishma continued, his tone layered with sorrow and command. "We are here because there are wounds older than this war itself, wounds deeper than what swords have inflicted. We are here because truth, though long silenced, must finally speak."

His gaze swept over them all, his voice like the river that carves mountains—unhurried, inevitable, "I have heard much—whispers in the corridors, truths buried beneath years of pride and vengeance. Before you deny, let me clarify: I have sought these truths myself. I have seen beyond mere accusations. And I know. I know how we arrived here. I know where we have faltered. But what I do not know—what I seek today—is why."

A cold, bitter laugh escaped Suyodhan's lips, but there was no mirth—only years of restrained fire. His fists clenched his stance, which was one of defiance, "You wish to know why, Pitamah?" he said, his voice sharp as steel. "Now? After all these years, you suddenly wish to hear our side?" There was mockery in his tone, but beneath it, something raw—something long buried yet never truly gone.

Vidura, who had always spoken with the wisdom of the ages, stepped forward. His voice did not rise, yet it carried the authority of one who understood the tides of fate, "Suyodhana, because what has happened is not a moment of triumph for anyone. It is not a battle won or lost. It is not a tale of victors and vanquished. It is a tale of blood—the same blood that runs in our veins. No matter how deep the divides or how far we stand apart, the truth remains—we are Kuru. We are bound by lineage, destiny, and the very threads of existence. That truth cannot be undone."

His words did not plead, nor did they command. They were. A reflection of the inevitable, "Today, we do not come as warriors or rulers. We come as men burdened by choices, by the weight of what was and what could have been. Today, you will speak. And we will listen. Then, the Pandavas will speak. And you must listen. There will be no interruptions. No accusations. No war of words. There is no battlefield here—only the last chance to look into each other's eyes and ask why. So that when we walk out of these doors, we will at least no longer be strangers moulded by half-truths, but brothers who have heard each other's burdens."

A heavy silence followed, thick with contemplation.

Then, Vikarna—the one who had often questioned right and wrong—spoke with quiet hesitation, "But why now, Kaka Shree?"

Gandhari, who had stood silent, finally spoke for the first time. Her voice did not carry the authority of a queen but the sorrow of a mother who had watched her sons walk into the darkness, one step at a time, "Because, Putra," she said, her voice steady, "time is a cruel force—it takes, erodes, erases. And we have already lost too much to its hands. If we delay any longer, it will not be just a kingdom that falls, but the soul of the Kuru lineage."

Her words hung heavy, like an eternal truth waiting to be acknowledged, "This is not about who you are. This is about why you have become who you are. Where did it begin? When did it turn into this?"

Suyodhana looked at her—his mother, pillar, and silent witness. His voice, when it came, was not as sharp as before, "So, you are saying, Mata... we can speak our side and will not be judged?"

Bhishma stepped forward, his presence unwavering, "Yes, Suyodhana. In the same way, the Pandavas will speak their side, and they, too, will not be judged. No voices shall rise in anger. No hands shall reach for weapons. Today, we listen. And then, only then, shall we speak. If there is a single moment left where understanding is possible, let it be now."

His eyes met every soul in the chamber, his final words cutting through the silence, "Now, who among you wishes to begin?"

The Fractured Bonds of Brotherhood"

No one spoke. Once filled with whispers and murmurs, the hall now drowned in a heavy silence. It was as if the air bore witness to the weight of unspoken words. The unrelenting truth shackled behind closed doors now demanded to be freed. Someone had to break the ice.

Yuyutsu stood, his presence quiet yet firm. His steady and unflinching gaze moved toward Bhishma, "I will go first, Pitamah."

Bhishma observed him with keen eyes, his aged heart perceiving the unshed pain behind those words. He nodded.

Yuyutsu took a deep breath, steadying himself, "I am one of Maharaja Dritarashtra's sons," he began, his voice laced with emotions that had been caged for years, "Yet, I have never known a father's love. I have never felt the warmth my brothers—your sons, Maharani—receive.

I have watched, year after year, as they stood by your side, basked in your love, while I remained an outsider in my own home. I do not know what it means to be embraced as a son, held with pride, and called upon with affection. What crime did I commit, Maharaj? Is my birth my only fault? Was my existence an error?"

He turned, his piercing gaze settling on Suyodhana, "Kunti Mata showed me kindness, a love I never expected, a motherly embrace I never received from the one who should have given it to me. And for that, I am condemned. Tell me, Brata Suyodhana, why am I not your brother? I share the same father as you. Yet, why do you resent me? You call Ashwatthama your dearest friend despite him being born of a different caste, a Brahmin's son—then why am I excluded? Is blood not thicker than companionship? Or is my loyalty a greater crime than my birth? Is it wrong to seek love from those who offer it when it has been denied to me by those who should have given it first? Why do you look at me with contempt when all I ever wanted was to be seen as your equal?"

The air crackled with tension, exposing the unspoken wounds of a lifetime. The hall remained still, and all eyes shifted toward Suyodhana.

A soft chuckle escaped Suyodhan's lips, devoid of mockery but filled with something more profound—exhaustion, perhaps, or the weight of unexpressed burdens. He slowly rose to his feet, his stance unwavering, his gaze locked with Yuyutsu's.

"You ask me why, Yuyutsu?" he said, his voice calm and measured, carrying the weight of battles fought long before the war began, "You seek love, but have you ever asked what it means to bear the burden of being my father's true son? You see my place, power, and position and believe it comes wrapped in love. But let me tell you what it truly means to be Dritarashtra's son."

He said, "Our father—our Maharaja—has always loved Yuyutsu. But his love has been drenched in fear, shackled by his insecurities. He loved me, but never with pride—only with desperation. I have lived under the shadow of Kaka Shree Pandu, whose mere name was enough to make my father question his worth. My every triumph was not a victory but a battle to prove my existence, to be seen as more than just the son of a blind king."

His fists clenched, "You say you have not received a father's love? Then tell me, brother, have I? Or have I merely been the vessel upon which he projected his lost crown?"

A pause. A breath. Then his voice softened, yet it did not lose its sharpness.

"And as for your question—why are you not my brother?" Suyodhan's eyes darkened, his lips curling into something resembling a bitter smile, "A brother is not born of shared blood, Yuyutsu. A brother stands with you when the world turns against you. You speak of love, but love is not given—it is earned. The Pandavas, whom you easily side with, have never seen me as their brother. To them, I have always been the usurper, the sinner, the villain in their grand tale of righteousness. Yet you—who claim to be my brother—stand with them. And you ask me why I do not embrace you?"

He sighed as if tired of the weight he carried alone for too long, "If you had stood beside me and fought for me as you fight for them, you would not need to ask why. You would have had your answer long ago."

Silence followed—a different silence than before, one that did not weigh upon the air but seeped into the bones, forcing every soul present to feel its depth.

Bhishma, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. His voice carried the wisdom of lifetimes, the sorrow of seeing generations repeat the same mistakes.

"Suyodhana," he said gently, "wisdom is not knowing what is right—it is accepting it. Yuyutsu has stood here today, not with accusations but with an open heart. If you are wise, you will see that in his words. If you are, you will understand the truth behind his pain."

Suyodhana turned to his Pitamah, his expression unreadable.

Bhishma's voice softened, "Power can be won, but true love must be given freely. You have won many battles, Suyodhana, but have you ever won a heart?"

Suyodhana did not answer. But for the first time, he looked at Yuyutsu not as an enemy or a traitor—but as a man, wounded just as he was.

That may be the beginning of something neither of them had expected.

Yuyutsu stepped forward, his expression calm yet unyielding, as if carrying the weight of truth too long ignored. His voice, neither loud nor pleading, resonated with conviction, echoing through the silent chamber like a guiding flame amid an impending storm.

"Brata Suyodhana," he began, his words measured and deliberate, "it is not you that I stand against—it is your actions. A man is not his mistakes, but when he refuses to see them, he becomes consumed by them. My allegiance is not to names or ties of blood, but to that which is, to that which does not betray the essence of dharma."

The room was still, the weight of his words pressing upon every soul present. Even Bhishma, who had seen the rise and fall of many destinies, watched with a gaze of contemplation.

"When one stands atop a great height," Yuyutsu continued, "he must be cautious of the winds that whisper in his ears. Influence, if left unchecked, turns into a shackle heavier than chains. And you, Brata, have let those voices take root—those who do not seek your well-being but your downfall. Yet, I have never stopped seeing you as my brother. If the time of urgency comes, I will come if you call upon me for aid. But a warrior does not wield his sword without knowing the cause he fights for. I will stand by you only if your path is one of righteousness. Not because I deny your strength or question your intentions, but because I refuse to walk a path that leads only to ruin."

Suyodhan's lips curled into a knowing smile, but the fire in his eyes betrayed something more profound—almost vulnerable. When he finally spoke, his voice carried not anger but a strange weariness.

"I understand you, Yuyutsu," he said, his tone measured, "But to me, true brotherhood is not about standing only when I am right. It is about standing even when I am wrong. What worth is a bond that falters the moment flaws appear? Loyalty is not meant to be conditional. It is meant to endure."

Silence passed between them—an unspoken challenge, a test of beliefs. Yuyutsu looked at Suyodhana, his eyes carrying neither defiance nor resentment but an unwavering truth that he had carried within him for years. His voice was not raised when he spoke, yet it held the weight of a soul that had wrestled with its burdens.

"Brata Suyodhana," he began, his words measured, steady, "what you seek is not loyalty, but submission. You wish for a bond that remains unshaken even in the face of wrongdoing, but tell me, is that true strength? Is it not weakness to expect unwavering allegiance without questioning whether the path you tread is just?"

He took a step forward, his gaze piercing yet sorrowful, "If I walk beside you even when you are wrong, I do not stand with you—I stand against dharma itself. And what is a bond that demands blindness instead of sight? You say true bonds are tested when one stands by another, even in error. But I ask you, does a brother not have the right to correct his blood? Does love not demand that I pull you away from fire rather than walk into it with you?"

His voice softened, but its depth did not waver, "You say I should stand by you not only when you are right but also when you are wrong. And yet, what is my silence worth if it only feeds your destruction? What is my loyalty worth if it allows you to fall deeper into darkness you may not see? If I truly stand by you, should I not be the one to warn you, to hold your hand back when it reaches for ruin?"

Yuyutsu took a deep breath, his words becoming even more profound, "You have 99 brothers, Brata. A 99 who stands beside you without question, pause, or hesitation. But tell me, how many among them have ever stopped you and asked— 'Are you certain this is right?'"

He let the silence stretch, allowing the words to seep into Suyodhan's thoughts, "My loyalty, love, brotherhood—it does not come as blind servitude. It comes in the form of truth, even when truth is bitter. It comes in the form of resistance when resistance is necessary. And it comes in standing beside you only when you stand with righteousness. What else is loyalty if it does not protect you from becoming the very thing you fight against?"

He stepped back, his final words leaving an indelible mark in the air, "Brata, you seek a bond that stands even in darkness. But I will only stand with you when you walk toward the light. And if that means I stand against you now, then so be it. I would rather be your opposition in truth than your ally in falsehood."

A Lifetime of Erasure

The air in the chamber was thick with unspoken realizations. Everyone had seen a different Yuyutsu today—not just a prince caught between two sides, but a man who had made his choice, not out of blind allegiance but unshakable conviction. His words had stripped away the veils of assumption, forcing everyone to see the truth—Karna, the ever-loyal warrior, had not pledged himself to the Pandavas simply out of duty or friendship but because they walked toward the light in a world that often swayed toward darkness. Even the Pandavas, who had long accepted Karna as their own, now saw him in a new light. Understanding the depth of the one who had stood with you through every storm is a revelation unlike any other.

A silence settled—not of emptiness, but of minds churning, souls confronting truths long buried.

Then, Bhima rose. His towering frame was as unyielding as his spirit, his voice carrying the weight of a question that had burned within him for years, "Suyodhana," he said, his tone devoid of mockery and fury—only a raw, aching curiosity, "Why have you always tried to destroy me and my family?"

The room stiffened. Everyone had expected this question, yet no one had been prepared for it. It was not just Bhima who wanted an answer—this was a question woven into the very fabric of their conflict. And today, in this sealed chamber where truth alone had been called to speak, there would be no more pretense.

A hush fell upon the chamber, thick with unspoken questions and truths long buried beneath the weight of time. Bhima's question did not merely linger in the air—it carved through it like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.

Suyodhan's lips pressed together, his fingers curling at his sides. He had waited for this moment his entire life—not to be questioned, but to be heard. And so, when he finally spoke, it was not with anger, not with arrogance, but with a voice that carried the sorrow of years, the torment of a fate he had never chosen.

"You ask me why, Bhima?" he said, his voice steady yet trembling with an emotion no one had ever cared to notice before, "You ask me why I have sought to destroy you and your family? But tell me, was I ever given a choice not to?"

Burning yet hollow, his gaze moved not just toward Bhima but toward the gathered assembly—his mother, father, teachers, elders, and those who had shaped his destiny without ever asking if he wished for it, "From the moment we opened our eyes in this world, you were named the righteous, and I the wicked. You were the sons of Pandu—shaped by dharma, blessed by fate. And I? I was the son of Dritarashtra—born not as a prince or warrior but as a shadow. An obstacle. A mistake. Tell me, Bhima, when was I ever anything but your enemy?"

His voice deepened, a bitter edge creeping into it, "I was never given a chance to be your brother. I was never given the privilege of being seen, of being understood. Every story of dharma, every lesson of righteousness, every whisper in the halls of Hastinapur declared one thing—that you were meant to rise, and I was meant to fall. That your victory was destined, and my defeat inevitable."

He exhaled, a bitter laugh escaping his lips, devoid of mirth, "You speak of my hatred. You speak of my attempts to kill you. But tell me, Bhima—when you crushed my pride as a child when you ridiculed me before the world, when you called me unworthy, what was I supposed to do? Was I to bow before you? Was I to accept my insignificance, to kneel and hand over everything I had ever known? If I had surrendered, I would have been erased—forgotten by history, reduced to nothing but a name in the footnotes of your grand tale."

His breath grew heavier, his words darker: "You speak of my arrogance, my insecurities. Yes, I am insecure. But how could I not be? Every day, I woke up knowing that no matter what I did, how hard I fought, or how much I loved this land, family, and kingdom, I would never be enough. I would never be worthy in the eyes of those who decided my fate long before I even learned to speak."

His fists clenched. Although his voice dropped to a whisper, it carried through the chamber with the weight of a storm, "You say I desire power. But tell me, Bhima—what else was left for me? If I could not have righteousness, if I could not have love if I could not have acceptance, then what else was I to seek except power? When a man is denied his right to belong, he will carve his place, even if he has to burn the world to do it."

His eyes locked onto Bhima's, raw and unguarded, "Yes, I have tried to kill you. Yes, I have tried to destroy you. But not because I hate you. Not because I despise the Pandavas. I did it because I had to. Because your existence meant that mine had no meaning. Because as long as you lived and stood tall, I was condemned to be nothing but the villain in your story. And tell me, Bhima—who among you ever let me be anything else?"

A silence unlike any before settled upon the room. It was not a silence of discomfort but of realization—of a truth that had long been ignored, finally laid bare.

Then, in an almost sorrowful voice, practically defeated, Suyodhana whispered, "I do not regret fighting you. I only regret that I was never given the choice not to."

And with that, the weight of years, agony, and an entire lifetime of being unseen—fell into the air, waiting to be acknowledged.

The Silence of Self-Reflection

The moment's weight pressed heavily upon the chamber, suffocating the air between them. Every person in the room felt the echoes of Suyodhan's agony—an unspoken truth that had long been dismissed. His words had torn through the veil of assumptions, exposing wounds that had festered in silence.

The first to break this unbearable quiet was Gandhari. Her breath was measured, but her voice carried the weight of years, sorrow, and a mother torn between duty and love.

"Putra," she began, her voice neither accusing nor pleading but bearing the quiet authority of one who has seen beyond illusions, "Whether you love or despise them, you cannot erase the existence of the Pandavas. The world does not bend to our hatred nor dissolve at our will. It is not made of those we wish to keep and those we wish to destroy. In this world, there will always be those who stand taller than us, shine brighter, and surpass us in ways we cannot control. If we lived by the law of destruction, then tell me, should we seek to eliminate every soul that outshines us? Is that the path you choose?"

Her words were not meant as mere admonition; they carried a quiet, aching plea—a plea only a mother could make.

Duhsasana, standing beside his brother, let out a hollow laugh. A bitter, knowing laugh, not meant to mock but to unveil another hidden truth. His lips curled into a smile, but his eyes burned with something more profound than defiance.

"Mata," he said, his voice steady, "could you silence the storm within you when you learned that Kaki Shree had birthed Brata Yudhishthira? No, you were not. Did Pitashree ever conquer his jealousy? Did he also battle against the shadow of another's greatness? If Pitashree, the ruler of this kingdom, could not master his insecurities, why do you ask it of us? If he, a man of experience and wisdom, failed to restrain his hunger for power, what do you expect of sons raised in his image?"

A silence fell again, but Duhsasana had no intention of letting it linger. He turned, his eyes flickering toward Dritarashtra, who sat in his usual silence—his hands gripping the edge of his throne as if holding onto something more than just the wood beneath him.

"When Jyeshta Vasusena gave this kingdom to you, Mata, we all rejoiced. Not because we were blind to right or wrong but because, for once, we felt that justice had smiled upon us. I will accept this. Jyeshta has never been ours nor theirs, and he has always remained neutral. Yet, despite receiving a kingdom that was given without war, without bloodshed, Pitashree still took it from you. And did he offer it to Brata Suyodhana? No. He did not. Because in the end, Pitashree, loves his throne more than his sons."

Dritarashtra flinched. A lifetime of words, counsel, and royal etiquette had not prepared him for such naked truth. But Duhsasana was not done, "If the very foundation of our lives is built on the desires of Pitashree who will not yield, then tell me, Mata, what do you expect from us? Should we suddenly become saints when raised in a court where ambition was praised and ruthlessness rewarded? If Pitashree bends his ears to Mantri Kanika, if he has agreed with our acts, if he has assured us that we are right—then why should we believe otherwise?"

Though strong, his voice carried the weight of generations—of grievances, wounds, and unanswered questions, "Why must we always bear the burden of being the ones in the wrong?"

The chamber was silent, but it was not empty. It was filled with the weight of unspoken truths, regrets too late to change, and destinies already set in motion.

Gandhari closed her sightless eyes, breathing in the storm that raged in her son's words. Each syllable struck like a dagger, slicing through the veil of restraint she had wrapped around herself for years. The pain in his voice was undeniable, but the truth in his words burned the most.

She exhaled slowly, her hands tightening over the folds of her sari as if grasping for an anchor in the tempest of emotions that threatened to pull her under. Then, she spoke in a voice neither gentle nor sharp but laden with sorrow that only a mother could bear.

"Duhsasana... you have spoken of truths no one dares to utter. You have held a mirror to our failings, mistakes, and shadows that have followed our family like a curse. And for that, I do not scold you. I do not silence you. If a Putr cannot speak his anguish to his Mata, then to whom shall he speak?"

She turned slightly in the direction of where she knew her husband sat. Though blind, she had never needed sight to see him, "You ask if your Pitashree could stop his jealousy. You ask if I could stop my insecurity. No, Putra, I could not. I am a woman of flesh, bound by emotions and chained by my weaknesses. My heart clenched when I learned that Kunti had birthed this generation's second eldest son. And when I bore you and touched your face for the first time, I prayed—not for you to rule, not for you to be victorious, but for you all to be enough in your own right. But that was my fear speaking, not my wisdom. And fear, Putr, is the first step toward destruction."

She turned her face towards Duhsasana now, her voice growing heavier, "You say your Pitashree craved power. Perhaps he did. But tell me, is that justification for you to crave it the same way? If your Pitashree let his weakness define him, must you do the same? You say he did not stop you but let you believe your actions were right. And that, Putra, is his sin. But tell me, when did you begin believing that walking a flawed path absolves you of choosing it? If you say you walk in his footsteps, then tell me, will you also bear his suffering, regrets, and pain? One day, will you also sit upon the throne of Hastinapur not as a king but as a man drowning in the weight of his choices?"

Her voice trembled slightly but did not waver, "You see your Pitashree's hunger, but do you see his emptiness? You see his throne, but do you see his sleepless nights? You speak of Tatshree and Vidura siding with the Pandavas, Shri Krishna, Yuyutsu and Niyati standing beside them, and the world calling you wrong. But tell me, Putr—has there never been a moment where you felt within yourself that you were wrong? Or have you silenced that voice, too?"

The silence that followed was unbearable. Gandhari finally reached out her hands, though she could not see where they would land. She knew her son stood before her, and that was enough, "You are my son, Duhsasana. And your pain is my pain. But if you believe that pain alone justifies actions, then tell me, my child—how are you any different from those you condemn? You say the world calls you wrong. Then tell me, are you seeking justice... or just vengeance?"

A mother's sorrow, a mother's wisdom, and a mother's final plea—woven into a single question that Duhsasana, for the first time in his life, could not answer.

The Weight of Unspoken Truths

The weight of unspoken truths settled over the chamber like an impending storm, thick with the scent of unshed blood and words never spoken. For the first time, the Pandavas were not just warriors and rivals but listeners—forced to bear witness to wounds they had never cared to see. The Kauravas, whom they had always viewed as adversaries, stood before them not as mere obstacles in their path but as men—men forged in the same fire, men who had suffered in ways they had never considered.

This revelation did not come as a plea for sympathy. No, the air was far too charged for that. It was something far more unsettling—an unveiling of resentment, of insecurities buried beneath the weight of their shared past. And amid this whirlwind of emotions, one truth stood out, stark and undeniable: the Kauravas' unwavering reverence for Jyeshta Vasusena. It was not mere admiration nor the loyalty of convenience—it was something raw, something primal. Even in their hatred and defiance, they held a respect carved from something more profound than blood or allegiance for him. And that realization struck the Pandavas harder than any blade ever could.

Vasusena rose to his feet, his presence commanding without effort. His sharp and unyielding eyes swept across the room, lingering on every face before finally resting upon the sons of Gandhari. His voice had no anger, only a quiet, patient demand for truth, "I understand where this is coming from," he said, his words heavy with the weight of wisdom earned through suffering, "But tell me this—if the throne was your desire, if the right to rule was what you sought, why was it never claimed in the open? Why was it never spoken, never demanded outright?"

His voice deepened, pressing into something darker. "Why was the path of deception chosen? Why resort to shadows when the battle could have been fought in the light?"

The question hung in the air, its weight pressing into every corner of the chamber, daring—no, demanding—someone to answer. And then, from the side of the Kauravas, Rajkumar Durmukha stepped forward.

He was not the most vocal among his brothers nor the most celebrated. Yet as he straightened his shoulders, as his eyes burned with the fire of long-buried truths, he commanded the room with the sheer force of his presence. He exhaled, slow and measured, shaking his head as if at the naivety of the question.

"You ask why backstab, Jyeshta?" His voice was firm and unwavering "I ask—why not?"

His gaze locked onto Vasusena, piercing and unrelenting, "Is that not how this game is played? Or do you still hold onto the childish illusion that righteousness is an armor that protects one from the reality of power? Tell me—when has virtue alone ever won a throne?"

His eyes flickered to Yudhishthira, dark with accusation, "Brata, did you not once say that truth is the foundation of dharma? Then answer me this—what truth did you hold when you walked into this city, heads held high, proclaiming your birthright? You call us unjust, but did you ever ask—whose justice? When the throne was debated, was our side ever truly heard? Or was it always decided that we were wrong before speaking?"

He turned to Bhima, a cold smirk curving his lips, "And you, Brata Bhima—the son of Vayu, the warrior whose strength bends steel. Tell me, does power alone determine righteousness? Did you not humiliate us, torment us, treat us as lesser beings from the very beginning? Or will you claim innocence and say it was nothing more than a brother's jest?" His voice sharpened, cutting through the air like a blade, "You call us arrogant, but what were you when you dragged us into fights every time we crossed paths? Or is it only arrogance when it is not in your favor?"

His gaze snapped to Arjuna, sharp as a predator's, "And you, Partha—answer me this. Do you remember the Swayamvar? You won Draupadi, yet all five took her as your wife. Tell me, was your victory truly about her? Or did you not, even for a moment, think of the power her hand would bring? Did you not think that marrying her would secure an ally for war? Did you not use her as a weapon before we ever lifted our swords?" His voice was a whisper now but no less venomous, "You ask us about deception but tell me—was this dharma?"

His expression hardened as his gaze fell upon Bhishma, "And you, Pitamah—you, who swore to protect dharma, to uphold the laws of Hastinapur. Where was your dharma when you remained silent? When we were raised in the shadows of resentment while they basked in the warmth of guidance?"

Then, to Vidura, "And you, Kaka Vidura—the wisest among us, the man who speaks of virtue as though it is a shield. Where was your wisdom when choosing sides before knowing our story? You nurtured and guided them, but did you ever stop asking why we despised them? Or did you assume we were born with hatred in our hearts?"

And finally, his gaze landed on Kunti, "And you, Kaki Shree Kunti," His voice was softer now, but it carried the heaviest wound, "You, who speak of love. Tell me—was your love ever equally divided? Did you ever once look at us as your nephews? Or were your eyes always fixed on your sons, ensuring they received everything you never could?

A suffocating silence filled the room. Every word had been a blade. And every blade had found its mark.

Durmukha exhaled, his breath steady, his truth bare for all to see: "We were raised to see them as enemies. You fed them love. We were given reasons to fight. You gave them reasons to claim righteousness." He stepped back, his voice quieter now yet no less powerful, "So tell me—was it truly us who started this war?"

Heartlines

"So much hatred for them?" Bhima rose to his feet, his towering presence like a tempest barely restrained. His voice was neither defensive nor pleading—a blade of raw truth, "Durmukha, I never knew my childish pranks were wounds that festered into hatred. Had you come to me and spoken even once, I would have stopped. I cannot hurt my brothers. And I considered you my brothers, too."

His voice hardened, like the tightening grip around a mace before the fatal strike, "But that is not your chosen path. Instead, Suyodhana poisoned me first—not just with venom, but with intent. He did not fight me as a warrior should. He tried to kill me in the shadows, drowning me in the depths of a river. And when that failed, he sought Shakuni Mamashree's hand to strike again. You say Pitamah and Kaka Shree shielded us—but what protection did they offer? Did they ever raise a sword for us? No. They told us to swallow our pain in silence because Maharaj would never stand for us. Because his heart belonged only to his sons."

A chilling pause settled over the chamber.

Nakula now stepped forward, his sharp eyes glinting with the steel of logic. Unlike Bhima's, his voice was not fire—but ice, "We never asked for this war of lineage nor sought the throne. We were content in the mountains, away from the web of this court and the venom of the city. Yet hatred followed us like a shadow. And you speak of birthright?"

He let the word hang, heavy with meaning, before continuing, his voice slicing through the room like a honed blade, "If our birth is questioned, then so should yours. If we are not true Kuru sons, neither are you. Our Pitashree was born of divine intervention, and so was yours. Your very bodies were formed from lifeless mass, given breath by the might of Maharishi Vyasa. Your existence, too, is not by the laws of nature but by the blessings of Mahadeva himself. And tell me, did our ancestors not come from Niyoga? Did Yayati's blood not continue through ways beyond the ordinary? Then why is it that we are cast aside as outsiders only?"

Bhima took a step forward, his voice deep, resonant, unshaken, "If you had grievances, why did you not come to us as brothers? You had a choice—to speak, share, and be heard. But every time, every single time, you reached not for words but for weapons. And not weapons of honour—but of treachery. You tried to burn us alive. You poisoned me. You sent assassins in the dark. You wanted us dead before we even knew what war meant."

His eyes, burning like twin flames, settled on Durmukha, "And now you ask why Mata Kunti could not love you the same way she loved us? Tell me, Durmukha, if someone sought your life at every turn to erase you from existence—would your Mata love them as she loves you?"

A silence followed—cold, unyielding, filled with unsaid truths.

And then, Arjuna stood. His voice was neither harsh nor broken, but it carried the weight of a man who had long accepted his pain. He turned his gaze to Duhsasana, meeting his fire with ice.

"You are right, Duhsasana. This is not just about us. This is about Tatshree's silence. It is his failure that we stand here today as enemies instead of kin. He saw us not as children of his brother but as a threat. He, loved by our Pitashree more than anyone, never gave us that same love in return."

His voice did not rise, but its weight felt like the tightening of a bowstring before release, "So, tell me, what is the solution now? Shall we draw our swords and let blood answer what words could not? Shall we kill each other until only silence remains? Is this how a family should be?"

The chamber held its breath. Once thick with accusations, the air now pulsed with the weight of a truth no one wished to acknowledge.

And in that moment, for the first time, hatred did not stand alone.

It stood alongside something else—regret.