The next day, Kunti summoned Draupadi to her chamber. The request was unexpected, but Draupadi had learned to expect the unexpected from her mother-in-law. A woman who shifted between warmth and detachment with the ease of a seasoned player on the chessboard of life.

She entered, bowing respectfully and touching Kunti's feet. The older woman blessed her and then gestured for her to sit.

"Putri," Kunti began her voice calm yet carrying the weight of unspoken things, "I called you for two matters. First, I will discuss the search for a bride for my eldest, Vasusena. Second, I suggest you learn the art of administration from Maharani Gandhari."

Draupadi blinked. Of all the things she had expected, this was not among them.

Her mind reeled, trying to read between the lines of those words. It wasn't just about a bride for Vasusena. And it certainly wasn't just about learning governance from the Queen of Hastinapur. No, this was something more.

Kunti watched her, the faintest smile curling her lips, "I see you trying to decipher my intentions," she remarked, "Trying to place me into categories of right and wrong, friend or foe."

Draupadi's spine stiffened.

Kunti leaned forward, her voice dropping lower, "Putri, let me make it simple for you. I am a survivor."

It is a single statement, yet it carries a lifetime within it.

Draupadi's hands curled into fists. And before she could stop herself, she asked, "For the sake of your survival, would you destroy another?"

Kunti sighed. There was no denial, no outrage at the accusation. Instead, she tilted her head and asked, "Isn't that the nature of the world? The strongest survive. Isn't that what your father taught you?"

Draupadi's breath caught in her throat. There it was—the unvarnished truth, stripped of illusion, righteousness, and pretense. "So, you admit it," Draupadi whispered, trembling with restrained fury. You planned this from the beginning. You knew, and you let it happen."

Her vision blurred with tears—tears she had refused to shed in front of Kunti until now. Kunti stood, walked towards her, and did something Draupadi did not expect: She embraced her.

Draupadi allowed herself to cry in Kunti's arms for the first time. It wasn't just sorrow—exhaustion, rage, helplessness, and the crushing weight of choices made for her.

Kunti stroked her hair. Then, she began to speak: "I will tell you a story, Putri. One I will likely never tell again. Listen, and listen well."

Draupadi steadied her breath as Kunti took a deep one, "I was once a young girl who had the power to summon the gods themselves," Kunti began, "Rishi Durvasa gave me a boon, a mantra that could call upon any deity and grant me a son. But there was a condition—I could only use it with my husband's or my elders' permission." She chuckled bitterly. "A restriction that, as a foolish girl, I did not consider significant. Why would I ever need it? I assumed my husband would be enough."

Her eyes darkened, lost in the past. "Then, I married Brahmarshi Pandu. He loved me—so he claimed. And yet, Tatshree told him to marry again, to secure the lineage."

She turned to Draupadi, eyes sharp, "He came to me, asking for my approval. I was the Queen, his first wife. Do you think I wanted it?"

Draupadi remained silent.

"No wife can accept another woman in her husband's arms. But a Queen must."

Draupadi's throat tightened.

"So, I accepted Madri. Not because I was convinced but because a queen's duty is greater than her desires. And then, I did what any woman in my position would do—I ensured that my presence was irreplaceable. I became my husband's closest counsel, his confidante. I shared his burdens. I made myself indispensable."

A bitter smile, "Madri? She was neither my friend nor my rival. She was simply another woman in the same storm. We coexisted. And when Arya went to his Digvijaya... he never truly saw me. He spent time with me, yes. But did he ever truly hear my silence?"

Kunti's voice faltered for the first time, "No. He did not."

Draupadi's heart clenched. Kunti exhaled, "And then we heard... Arya died."

A silence stretched between them.

"Do you know what happened after?" Kunti quietly asked, "Rajmata Satyavati—the great matriarch—requested that I continue Pandu's lineage."

Draupadi frowned, "But... he was gone."

Kunti smiled without humor, "And yet, they had a solution. Niyoga."

Draupadi's breath hitched.

Kunti nodded, eyes glinting with an emotion Draupadi couldn't name, "Imagine mourning your husband and then being told that you must continue his legacy by lying with another man. Imagine them choosing a man for you. And tell me, who do you think they would have chosen?"

Draupadi's lips parted. A name formed on her tongue, but she could barely speak it, "Tatshree Dritarashtra," she whispered.

Kunti smiled, "You see clearly, Putri."

A chill ran down Draupadi's spine, "They would have chosen Jyeshta, the man whom I had always called my elder. Do you understand now?"

Draupadi felt sick.

"To escape, I revealed my boon," Kunti said, "And in doing so, I trapped myself in another chain. One where I was forced to summon gods and bear children—not for myself, but for the kingdom. Not for love, but for duty."

Kunti finally turned to face Draupadi, "So, my dear Putri... do you still think I had choices?"

Draupadi's heart pounded. This was not just a confession. It unravelled history, a truth buried beneath duty and deception. For the first time, she saw Kunti—not as a mother-in-law, not as the woman who had changed her fate, but as a woman who had been shaped by choices that were never hers.

A survivor.

Draupadi's voice was barely a whisper, "What do you want from me, Mata?"

Kunti's gaze softened, "To understand, Putri."

Silence.

Then, Draupadi swallowed the storm in her heart and nodded. Understanding did not mean acceptance. But it was a beginning.

Kunti looked at Draupadi, her gaze steady yet shadowed by memories too heavy to be spoken of lightly. The chamber was quiet except for the occasional rustling of silk as Draupadi adjusted herself, sensing the weight of what was about to be revealed.

"I was given the choice to summon a celestial being," Kunti began, her voice measured, almost detached, "I called upon Surya Bhagawan, and he bestowed me with Vasusena."

A hollow chuckle escaped her lips—one that did not reach her eyes, "Now, this is interesting, Putri. Another man touched me. Perhaps divine, but still another man. A married woman cannot even think of another lest the world scorns her character. And yet, if the elders grant their permission, she may summon another man into her chambers and bear his child as long as it serves her husband's lineage. What a strange Dharma. The only virtue they grant you is motherhood. That alone redeems you."

Her voice softened then, and her fingers absently traced the embroidered edge of her saree, "Putri, to be a mother is a joy beyond words. The moment I held Vasusena in my arms, the world made sense again. In that instant, nothing else mattered. He was the light in my dark world."

Her fingers clenched the fabric suddenly as if gripping an invisible pain, "And then," she whispered, "some evil eagle came and snatched him away."

Kunti lifted her eyes, now dark with emotion, and met Draupadi's gaze, "Think, Putri. You endure unbearable agony, your soul shattered for the sake of a child. And then that child is stolen from you."

Draupadi felt her breath hitch. The mere thought sent a piercing dread through her. The pain Kunti had borne, the loneliness she had swallowed—it was suffocating to imagine.

Kunti exhaled, a bitter smile curving her lips, "And then, I was told my Arya was not dead. He had been alive all along. Now tell me, what do you think he thought of me when he returned? When he learned I had lain with another to bear children in his absence?"

Draupadi clenched her fists, struggling to maintain composure as the weight of Kunti's pain pressed upon her.

"I waited for his anger," Kunti continued, "But he did not rage. Instead, he revealed something else. He had been cursed and cursed never to touch a woman again. His desires and his rights as a husband were stolen from him. And so, he left his kingdom, abandoned his throne, and we followed."

She smiled—an empty, weary smile. "I was content in the forest, you know. There was no palace politics, no watching eyes, no expectations weighing me down. Just knowledge, service, and the simple peace of existence. The only sorrow I carried was for my lost child."

Kunti turned her gaze back to Draupadi, "But happiness, Putri, is fleeting. A woman's peace is never hers to keep."

Her voice took on a darker edge as she continued, "One day, Arya decided that we would all ascend to heaven. He did not ask us or consider what we wanted—he declared it. And we followed. But fate is cruel, and heaven does not accept those without sons to carry forth their name. And where was Vasusena? He was alive, but he was not with us. So, Arya needed more sons. More heirs to ensure his passage."

Draupadi stiffened. The implications were clear.

Kunti let out a low, humorless laugh, "You see the irony, don't you? He needed more children. And what did that mean?"

Draupadi swallowed, "You had to call upon another celestial being. You had to forge another bond."

Kunti reached out, cupping Draupadi's cheek in a rare gesture of affection, "Yes. And so, for his dharma, I summoned Yama, Vayu, and Indra. I gave him the sons he needed. But greed, Putri..." Her voice dropped, laced with something between sorrow and scorn, "Greed is a sin even for a Brahmarshi."

She sighed, her fingers slipping away from Draupadi's face, "A lesson for you, my child—be wary of your choices and words. Karma always finds its way back. Be vigilant."

Kunti's voice lowered to a whisper, "I declined to summon another. Because, as per the Vedas, a woman who has relations with five men is called characterless. And if it is six... she is branded a prostitute."

Draupadi inhaled sharply, her eyes burning with a sudden fury, "Mata!" she snapped, "Did you just—"

Kunti embraced her before the anger could fester, her hand stroking Draupadi's hair with the tenderness of a mother, "Never, Putri. Not you. You are above such labels. The gods themselves shaped your destiny. Do you think I do not see you? Do you think I do not know the burden you bear for my sons?"

She kissed Draupadi's forehead, her voice heavy with emotion, "To be reborn every night only to be claimed once more—that is a death and rebirth you endure every day. To love everyone equally.... I can understand the pain, Putri. The day I think ill of you, may the gods themselves strike me down."

Draupadi remained still in Kunti's embrace, her heart hammering in her chest. The words had been spoken, and the truth laid bare between them. The past could not be undone, nor the wounds erased. But at that moment, a fragile understanding was forged between sorrow and pain, bitterness and unspoken love.

For the first time, Draupadi felt the weight of Kunti's life, and Kunti, perhaps, felt the weight of hers.

"Lesson two," Kunti murmured, her fingers lightly brushing Draupadi's back, "jealousy is formidable. You never truly know what someone harbors in their heart. Watch closely, Putri. People may conceal their thoughts, but their actions will betray them."

Draupadi lifted her head slightly, her brows furrowing in curiosity. Kunti met her gaze and sighed, "Madri was jealous. She envied my status as Queen. She envied the boon I had received from Rishi Durvasa. She resented that I was continuing the lineage of Brahmarshi Pandu." Kunti's lips curled into a sad smile, "She asked Arya to share that knowledge with her. I agreed but warned her to use it only once. But Putri... greed and jealousy make one reckless. She invoked Ashwini Kumaras. She called upon them only once, but two celestial beings answered. The power of the boon had been used twice."

Kunti's voice grew distant, her eyes lost in the past, "Arya wanted more. More sons, more lineage, more glory. But I refused. Lesson three: Some things should not be touched beyond their limits. The power we wielded—it could turn into a curse."

She rose from her chair and walked toward the window, looking out at the vast expanse of Hastinapur, "But the curse had already taken hold. In his greed, Arya... he lay with Madri. And she... she followed him into death." Kunti turned to Draupadi, her face solemn, "Lesson four—your husband will have flaws, as you will. But not every flaw should be met with confrontation. Be his confidant, his guide. If he is straying from the righteous path, help him see reason. Do not let him drown in his greed."

A moment of silence passed between them. Then, Kunti's voice softened, touched with nostalgia and sorrow, "I thought I had lost everything. My Arya was gone. My eldest son, my light, had left for Gurukul. And I had to return here, to Hastinapur—a city where people plotted against my children's lives every waking moment." She exhaled, shaking her head, "But I could not afford to break. My children had to survive. And for that, they had to stand together. No matter what."

She turned back to Draupadi with a rare, genuine smile, "Then, Yuyutsu entered my life, a son born not from my womb but from fate itself. Suddenly, my family of six became seven. And I vowed—I would protect them all."

Kunti's expression darkened, "Then Vasusena returned." Her voice was quiet, almost reverent, "He was a reformer. A great king in the making. But fate... fate is cruel. Varnavat happened. We knew justice would not come from Hastinapur. We had to forge our own lives."

Her eyes flickered with an unreadable emotion, "Then Bhima met Hidimbaa and had a son. And you, Putri—you are Bhima's second wife." Kunti studied Draupadi's face carefully, "I know you already have a co-wife. But Hidimbaa will never be a thorn in your path. Though she hails from the Rakshasa clan, she has a heart of gold. But, Putri," she exhaled deeply, "be kind to her son."

Draupadi sat in still silence, absorbing every word. Kunti's voice was steady, but the weight of her experience made her heartache.

"I never distinguished between my sons and Madri's," Kunti continued, "A child is a child. Their innocence should not bear the burdens of their mothers' fates. Love them, Putri. That is all they need."

A pause. Then, Kunti's gaze turned piercing, "Then, we heard about you."

Draupadi stiffened. Something in Kunti's tone sent an uneasy shiver through her, "I watched my sons, their faces alight with yearning. They all wanted you. But I..." Kunti chuckled bitterly, "I never wanted you."

Draupadi's breath hitched in shock. Kunti smiled—an honest, painful smile, "When I learned of your past lives, of the suffering your soul had endured, I saw a pious being, reborn, yet bound once more—to five husbands." Kunti's voice grew tight. "I could not bear it. I could not watch you be shared among five men. So, I prayed."

Draupadi could barely breathe, "For whom?"

Kunti chuckled, shaking her head, "For my Vasusena. I prayed that you would be his Queen. That you would rule beside him. That my son, the true King, would have you as his pillar."

Draupadi's hands clenched her saree, "But that prayer..."

"My wish was granted," Kunti said, her voice barely above a whisper, "You became a Queen. But the King I wanted for you... was cursed."

Draupadi shut her eyes. It was too much, too much to comprehend. But Kunti was not finished.

"I knew you were there that day," Kunti admitted, her lips trembling, "I said what I did because of your boon, yes. But also, because... I could not let my sons turn against each other. If one was favoured and won you over the others, jealousy would shatter the unity I fought to build." Her voice broke slightly, "I have fought against jealousy all my life. If my sons tore themselves apart, then what was the purpose of all my suffering?"

Kunti looked at her with a raw honesty that few ever saw, "Call me selfish. The world will. History will. But I have no regrets."

Draupadi could not look away, trapped in the intensity of the older woman's gaze. "Because, Putri," Kunti murmured, stepping closer, "you were born for something far greater than being a mere Queen. Your soul is divine. You have a purpose that you cannot even see. And my sons—they are only your companions in this life. They are meant to walk this path with you, but you... you are meant to lead."

A sudden warmth filled Kunti's expression, and her hand reached to cup Draupadi's cheek. "Today, I declare you as my eighth Pandava."

Draupadi gasped, her heart pounding wildly in her chest.

"As a mother," Kunti whispered, "I ask you to care for my sons. But as a woman, I will always understand your pain. I did not have someone to stand beside me when I needed it most." She exhaled shakily, "But I will be here for you. Always. And no matter what, you will come first."

The room was thick with silence, heavy with the weight of all that had just been spoken. Kunti and Draupadi remained in each other's embrace, two women bound by fate, loss, and resilience. But unknown to them, their conversation had not been private. The seven sons of Kunti had listened—each one standing still, the echoes of their mother's pain and Draupadi's unspoken turmoil sinking into their bones.

Vasusena finally broke the silence. His voice was steady yet full of realization, and he addressed his younger brothers.

"Anujo," he began, looking at the five Pandavas, "I have walked a long and different road than you. But standing here today, I see something clearly—Draupadi is not just your wife. She is far more. And for me and Yuyutsu, she is our sister, just as much as Niyati is. Now, do you all truly understand what that means?"

Yudhishthira, always seeking the more profound meaning, nodded, "She is a part of us, Jyeshta. More than a wife, she is a partner in the path of Dharma. But I fear, in binding her to all five of us, have we asked too much of her?"

Arjuna looked down, shame flickering in his eyes, "She was given to all of us by Mata's words. But her heart... did she have a choice?"

Vasusena exhaled deeply, "And that is where our duty begins, Anujo. Draupadi was not given a choice but accepted her fate with honour. She stands by you all, not out of obligation, but because she believes in you. But belief is fragile. If we do not honour her, respect her, if we do not ensure she is cherished and protected, then we will have failed her."

Bhima clenched his fists, "No one will harm her as long as I am alive."

"Protection is not just about wielding a mace, Bhima," Vasusena said, his voice gentle but firm, "It is also about standing beside her when she needs us, about knowing when to listen and when to speak. It is about ensuring she never feels alone, despite being surrounded by five husbands."

Sahadeva, deep in thought, finally spoke, "Then how do we navigate this? How do we make her feel she is not merely shared among us but truly, individually valued?"

Yuyutsu answered, "By understanding that she is not a possession. She is not something to be claimed or won. She is a person with her own heart, dreams, and burdens. If each of you sees her not just as a wife but as an equal, then she will never feel alone."

Nakula nodded, his voice thoughtful, "Then we must also be aware of our faults. It is easy to think of love as grand gestures, but true love lies in the quiet moments—listening, understanding, and patience. If we allow our egos to dictate our actions, we may one day lose her trust."

Vasusena looked at each of his brothers, his heart heavy with wisdom gained through hardship, "Remember this, Anujo. We are bound to each other by Dharma, duty, and love. But bonds are not unbreakable. She may still stand with you if you fail her, but her soul may drift away. And a woman who stands in body but not in spirit is already lost."

Yudhishthira closed his eyes, letting the words settle within him. When he opened them, there was resolve in his gaze, "Then let us promise each other this. Draupadi will never be alone. We will honour her not just as our wife but as our equal partner and someone who deserves more than fate dictated for her. Let her know, through our actions, that she is valued."

Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva nodded, each making a silent vow within their hearts.

Vasusena turned to Yuyutsu and clasped his shoulder, "And as her brothers, we will always stand by her, ensuring that she has a home, a family, and above all, a love that is not dependent on any condition."

Yuyutsu smiled faintly, his respect for Vasusena deepening, "Then let this be the moment we define our bond. Draupadi is not just a queen, not just a wife. She is a force in her own right. And we shall stand beside her, not ahead of her, nor behind, but as equals in this journey."

As the moon cast its silver glow upon them, the seven children of Kunti stood together, bound by something far more substantial than blood—understanding.

Beyond the Veil of Time

Niyati stood at a distance, the weight of an unspoken truth pressing against her chest. She had seen everything—the tears, the promises, the raw emotion binding the Pandavas, Vasusena, and Draupadi together—a bond so deep, so pure. And yet, she smiled bitterly.

Promises.

Promises are made in the warmth of love, the intensity of realization, and the moment's vulnerability. And yet, they were fragile. Fleeting.

For they would be broken.

She turned her gaze slightly, feeling the unmistakable presence beside her before he spoke—a familiar presence transcending time, space, and existence.

Krishna.

She didn't look at him immediately, but she knew he was watching her, reading every unspoken thought as if it were written in the stars.

Without turning, she asked, her voice laced with quiet amusement, "Tell me, Brata... Have you taken to stalking me these days?"

Krishna chuckled, the sound light yet filled with unfathomable depths, "And why would I do that, Niyati?" he asked, his voice playful but knowing, "Tell me, are we not the same? You are me, and I am you."

Niyati finally turned, her eyes sharp, unyielding, "You didn't answer my question."

Krishna smiled, tilting his head as if savoring the moment, "Let's not change too much, Niyati. Too many confrontations are happening before their time."

She narrowed her eyes, "You mean the conversation between Draupadi and Bua Kunti?"

Krishna nodded, "That conversation was meant to happen much later, at the dusk of their lives, when all they had left were memories and the weight of the past. You, however, have brought it into the light too soon."

Niyati scoffed, "Are you saying Draupadi was never meant to have this bond?"

"I'm saying this kind of bond was never meant to be made," Krishna corrected, his voice neither approving nor condemning—merely stating a truth.

Niyati took a step closer, her eyes searching his, "And what is it you fear, Brata? That I will change the momentum? That I will stop what must happen?"

Krishna sighed, his smile never faltering but his gaze growing heavier, "You know what must be done, Niyati. You know what Pandavas must endure. You know what Krishnaa must endure. You know the purpose behind it all."

"Purpose?" Niyati's voice turned sharp, "I'm here to change their fates, which I'm doing. What more? Do you mean to tell me that all this suffering and agony has some divine justification?"

Krishna's expression softened, but his voice remained steady, "Niyati, you know, suffering is not the end of the path—it is the beginning. The river does not resist the rocks in its way. It carves through them, shaping its own course. A sculptor does not weep for the stone he chisels away. He sees only the deity within."

Niyati inhaled deeply, "And you would let Draupadi suffer?"

Krishna did not hesitate, "Draupadi does not suffer. She transforms. She is Agni's daughter, the fire that must consume all impurity. You seek to protect her, but protection is not what she needs. She needs the storm, battle, and betrayal—not because I wish it, but because it is her nature to rise from the ashes."

Niyati clenched her fists, "You speak in riddles, Brata. But I ask you this—why must she be stripped of everything before she finds you?"

Krishna stepped closer, his presence overpowering yet infinitely gentle, "To trust without loss is not trust—it is convenience. To love without trial is not love—it is habit. Draupadi must be tested, not because I desire it, but because she must see the world for what it is. She must see men for what they are. She must see Dharma for what it demands. The world will break her, but she will become eternal in that breaking. And when the last shackle of Maya falls, only then will she truly see me."

Niyati looked away, her heart aching with a truth she could not deny. "And what of you, Brata?" she asked, her voice quieter now, "You will make her trust you blindly, but will you stand beside her?"

Krishna's smile was no longer playful. It was knowing, "She will never walk alone. Whether she calls for me or not, whether she sees me or not, I will be there. I always was. I always will be."

Niyati exhaled slowly, the wind around them whispering secrets only they could hear. She had known the answer before she had even asked the question. But hearing it from him...

Krishna looked at her, his eyes twinkling with something beyond mortal comprehension, "Even the greatest warriors in this tale will fade into time, Niyati. But Draupadi's name? It will be whispered in every age to come. Not as a queen. Not as a wife. But as Krishnaa—the one whom even time could not consume."

Silence stretched between them, vast as the cosmos itself. Krishna turned to leave, but before he did, he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper—yet carrying the weight of fate itself, "You know the truth, Niyati. But knowing the truth and accepting it... are two very different things."

And with that, he was gone. Niyati stood there, unmoving, as the wind carried away his words into the endless night.