The evening air in Hastinapur was thick with murmurs. The torches flickered along the palace corridors, casting restless shadows upon the walls as if the stones carried the weight of a newfound unease. Suyodhana sat in his chamber, his fingers pressed together in contemplation. The reports had arrived—whispers of Indraprastha, a kingdom risen from barren dust, shimmering like a celestial dream upon the earth.

How?

His mind refused to accept it. Khandavaprastha had been a wasteland, a cursed land berefts of prosperity. It was an exile in disguise, a severance from Hastinapur's heart. And yet, the words of the messengers defied reason.

"A city like Amaravati... The very air glows with opulence... Vishwakarma himself shaped it... The barren earth now blooms with golden harvests... Temples stand tall, and the Yamuna blesses its fields..."

He exhaled sharply, his hands tightening around the armrests of his throne. The murmur of approaching footsteps stirred him from his thoughts. His brothers entered first—Dusshasan, Durmukha, and the others—their expressions clouded with the same bewilderment that gnawed at him.

"They say it is like the gods have descended upon the earth," Dusshasan muttered, breaking the silence. "That they have built an empire from nothing."

"A trick. It must be," Durmukha added. "How can a wasteland become Indraprastha?"

Before Suyodhana could respond, another figure entered the chamber, his presence bringing an eerie stillness to the room. Shakuni, his maternal uncle, the man whose words were laced with venom and wisdom alike. He walked deliberately, his robes rustling softly as he approached his Svasr.

Suyodhana turned to him, his voice sharp. "You have heard?"

Shakuni nodded, his eyes dark as a storm-laden sky. "I have."

"Then tell me, Mamashree," Suyodhana demanded, rising to his feet. "How? How did they do this?"

Shakuni sighed, folding his arms as he leaned against one of the grand pillars, "Does it matter?"

Suyodhan's brow furrowed, "Of course, it matters! Khandavaprastha was supposed to break them, not raise them. It was barren, cursed! And now they sit upon a throne as grand as ours!"

Shakuni chuckled, shaking his head, "Ah, Priya Svasr. You speak as though a kingdom is merely the land it stands on. But a true kingdom is built by those who rule it. What you see is not a trick or a blessing from the gods—it is their creation. They did this for themselves. And that, my prince, is precisely why you should not covet it."

Suyodhan's jaw clenched, "You ask me to remain content?"

"I ask you to enjoy what you already possess," Shakuni said, his tone measured, "Hastinapur is yours, unchallenged. You have wealth beyond measure, warriors who would die for you, a legacy that has stood for generations. Why let your peace be disturbed by what your cousins have built for themselves?"

A silence stretched between them, but Suyodhan's heart raged. His uncle's words were wise and even logical. But they did nothing to quiet the storm inside him.

Dusshasan, watching his elder brother's turmoil, finally spoke, "But if they could build this, then what next? Will they rise beyond even us?"

Suyodhana turned to him, his hands trembling with restrained fury, "That is what I fear." He looked back at Shakuni, his voice cold, "You tell me to be content. But, Mamashree, I cannot. I will not. They have taken a land we discarded and turned it into a jewel. If I allow them to continue unchecked, what will they take next? My crown?"

Shakuni's gaze flickered with something unreadable. A quiet understanding, a knowing smirk. "Then, Yuvraj," he said softly, "perhaps it is time you begin thinking not as a man who observes but as a man who acts."

Suyodhana exhaled slowly, his anger hardening into something sharper—determination. The game had begun. Indraprastha would not remain untouched for long.

The Tale of a Fated Union

The halls of Indraprastha shimmered with golden luminescence, the scent of jasmine and camphor thick in the air as courtiers and royals basked in rare harmony. For the first time in what seemed like an age, the kingdoms of Kuru, Panchala, and Dwaraka sat together in joyous camaraderie, unburdened—if only briefly—by the weight of ambition and strife.

At the head of the gathering, Rani Dhanumati, regal and composed, turned to Pradyumna, her keen eyes twinkling with curiosity. "Rajkumar, we have heard much of your wedding to Rajkumari Rukmavati," she said, her voice gentle yet insistent, "The bards sing of it, but a tale is always sweetest from the lips of its hero. Will you not share it with us?"

Pradyumna hesitated, shifting in his seat. His fingers absently traced the rim of his goblet as the warmth of nostalgia threatened to overcome him. "I—" he began, only to falter as a rare shyness crept into his voice.

Nakula, ever playful, seized the moment, "What is this, Pradyumna? Why so coy?" he teased, leaning forward, "Brata Krishna weaves his tales of love with such enchantment that even the moon stands still to listen. Surely, his son must have inherited the same flair! Come now, indulge us."

A chorus of laughter rose in agreement. Shri Krishna, watching with quiet amusement, merely raised a brow, his ever-knowing smile deepening. Beside him, Matula Satyabhama inclined her head in encouragement, her eyes glinting with pride and mischief. Pradyumna exhaled, his reluctance melting away beneath the expectant gazes. He had been raised in a house where love stories were not whispered in secrecy but celebrated as poetry upon the lips of kings. And so, with a small, knowing smile, he surrendered to the inevitable.

"Very well," he said, his voice deep and steady, "Since my tale has been so ardently requested, I shall oblige."

He took a breath as if savouring the memory, "It all began when Maharathi Rukmi, the scorcher of enemies, announced the Swayamvar of his daughter, Rajkumari Rukmavati. Messengers carried the news across Bharata, inviting kings and princes from all directions. The grand assembly hall of Bhojakata was prepared to host the most gallant warriors, each eager to win the princess's hand."

Nakula, ever the spirited one, smirked, "Ah, svayamvaras. Either they conclude in blissful unions or a full-scale battle."

The gathering chuckled, and Pradyumna shook his head, "Fortunately, ours was the former... though it did have its moments of tension."

He continued, "Surrounded by my companions and well-wishers, I made my way to Bhojakata. The air was thick with anticipation, for every prince there knew that Rajkumari Rukmavati was no ordinary woman. She was famed for her grace, wisdom, and unparalleled beauty. And when I beheld her for the first time, adorned in the ceremonial garments, her gaze steady, her demeanour regal—I knew, in that instant, that she was the one I desired."

Krishna's eyes twinkled with mischief, "Did she feel the same, or did you assume she did?"

Pradyumna chuckled, "Pitashree, if you must know, she had already decided before the assembly began."

Satyabhama raised an eyebrow, "Truly? And how would you know that?"

"Because," Pradyumna leaned forward, lowering his voice as if revealing a great secret, "the moment her eyes met mine, they did not waver. Not once. She held my gaze, unblinking, unwavering. And when she arose with the garland, she walked towards me with the same resolute grace."

Dhanumati smiled, "A woman's heart is not so easily swayed. She must have seen something in you beyond mere appearance."

"That, or she knew resisting a Yadava would be futile," teased Nakula, prompting laughter.

Pradyumna laughed along before continuing, "The moment she placed the garland around my neck, the murmurs in the assembly ceased. The kings who had come hoping to claim her were left stunned. There was no battle, no contest—only a silent acknowledgement of destiny unfolding."

After listening intently, Bhima finally spoke, "And Rukmi? Did he accept it so easily?"

Pradyumna's smile dimmed slightly, "Mamashree Rukmi had vowed never to side with Dwaraka, but he had also promised to honour his daughter's choice. Though he did not oppose the wedding, he made it abundantly clear that our union did not change his stance against Pitashree or our clan."

Krishna nodded, his expression unreadable, "Rukmi is a man of pride. And pride, when unchecked, often leads one astray."

Sahadeva, ever the observant, mused, "But still, Pradyumna, he let you wed his daughter. That must count for something."

"It does," Pradyumna agreed. "Despite his enmity with Dwaraka, he honoured his dharma as a father." He then smiled, "And that is how I won the heart of Rukmavati."

The hall was filled with murmurs of admiration and teasing remarks, but above all, there was joy—a moment of shared happiness between the houses of Kuru, Panchala, and Dwaraka.

A Union of Dharma and Will

Amidst the laughter and mirth, a moment of solemn deliberation had arrived—one that would shape the bonds between two great lineages. Bhishma, the grand patriarch of the Kuru house, sat in quiet contemplation, his gaze steady upon Vasudeva. There was an air of measured gravity about him that commanded silence without effort. When he finally spoke, his voice was deep, unwavering, and imbued with the weight of generations past and those yet to come.

"Vasudeva," he began, his words echoing with the authority of a guardian of dharma. "Yadavas and Kurus descend from the same sacred lineage—the mighty King Yayati, whose blood flows through our houses. We are not separate, nor have we ever truly been. My sister, Putri of Tatshree Bahlika, Rohini, is your wife. And you, Vasudeva, are not just the lord of the Yadavas but also the Brata of our Kuru Kulvadhu, Kunti. The ties that bind us are not of mere diplomacy but of blood, kinship, and shared destiny."

His gaze did not waver as he continued, "For many years, the house of Kuru and Yadava have walked their paths—sometimes converging, sometimes straying. But if there is one truth we both know, it is that unity strengthens a kingdom while division weakens it. With this intent, I ask—will you give your daughter, Niyati, in marriage to Yuyutsu, the son of Dritarashtra? Not as an alliance of power, a mere duty, or a bond that upholds dharma?"

A profound silence followed, thick with unspoken thoughts. Vasudeva, ever a man of wisdom, leaned back, his fingers pressing together in contemplation. His gaze flickered toward Krishna and Balarama, who sat in quiet observation, their expressions unreadable. Beside them, Devaki and Rohini, the revered queens of the Yadava house, held their silence though their eyes betrayed a deep thought.

Vasudeva finally rose, his voice breaking the quiet like the first stirrings of dawn, "This is not a decision to be made in haste nor by one voice alone," he declared, "Gangaputr has sought a union between Kuru and Yadava, between Yuyutsu and our daughter Niyati. But before I give my word, I must know the will of those who hold her dearest."

Krishna's ever-knowing eyes gleamed with quiet amusement, though his demeanour remained unreadable. Balarama sat in thought, his powerful arms folded across his broad chest.

Devaki spoke first, her voice carrying the grace of a woman who had endured much yet remained unshaken, "During Niyati's birth, a prophecy was uttered," she said, her gaze sweeping across the assembly, "No one shall impose a marriage upon her. It shall be her will, her choice, and hers alone."

Rohini, ever serene, nodded in agreement, "A daughter born under such celestial alignment is not bound by the laws that govern ordinary unions. If this proposal is to be honoured, it must be with Niyati's heart's consent."

Vasudeva inclined his head, "Then we shall not decide until we have sought her will."

At that moment, Shri Krishna spoke, his voice smooth as flowing water yet weighted with undeniable significance, "But before we ask Niyati, should we not first hear from Bua Kunti?"

All eyes turned toward Kunti, the matriarch of the Pandavas, who sat in quiet contemplation. She met Vasudeva's gaze with a softness reserved only for family, "You speak with wisdom, Krishna," she said, addressing Krishna. Then, turning to her brother, her voice carried warmth, "Brata Vasudeva, you have always been a just man. But I ask you now, as a sister before a brother—what does your heart tell you of this proposal?"

Vasudeva exhaled slowly, "Yuyutsu is not of the royal womb, yet he carries the blood of the Kurus. He has chosen righteousness over blind allegiance, duty over convenience. His lineage may not be the purest, but his soul is untarnished." His voice softened, "Yet, Kunti, I would not see my daughter wedded to a man unless I believed he would cherish her as the very breath in his lungs."

Kunti nodded and turned to Bhishma, "And what of you, Tatshree? Why Yuyutsu?"

Bhishma straightened, his voice imbued with the certainty of a man who had witnessed countless generations, "Because he is a man who understands the weight of choice," he answered. "He has walked the shadowed halls of Hastinapur, yet never let darkness taint his heart. He is not blinded by ambition nor shackled by ego. A man who defies fate to uphold righteousness is rarer than a warrior on the battlefield. And such a man," his gaze met Vasudeva's once more, "deserves a woman whose spirit is unyielding, whose grace is as fierce as her lineage. Niyati is such a woman."

It was then that Kunti, who had been listening intently, spoke, her voice filled with more profound emotion than mere approval, "Niyati has always stood by my sons, much like Krishna has. In moments of joy and despair, she never turned away. She became my daughter and a sister to my sons in every sense that matters. Long ago, she told everyone that if ever there was a man she would consider, it would be none other than Yuyutsu."

A hushed silence followed her words. Then, she turned to her Brata Vasudeva, her voice unwavering, "I did not give birth to Yuyutsu, but if I speak from my heart, then let it be known—just as I have six Pandavas, he is my seventh. He is the strength that holds them together, walking beside them when others turn away."

A silence stretched, but this time, it was not heavy with doubt—it was laden with thought.

Vasudeva turned to his wives, "Then, let us summon Niyati."

Moments later, the soft chime of anklets echoed in the chamber as Niyati entered. Draped in silken blue, her dark eyes reflected the flickering lamps. She looked at her father, then at Krishna, and finally, at Bhishma.

Bhishma's voice, though gentle, held the weight of tradition, "Niyati, daughter of the Yadavas, I ask for your hand on behalf of Yuyutsu, son of Dritarashtra. But I seek not merely a customary answer—I seek your will. Does your heart accept this proposal?"

A quiet moment passed before she spoke, her voice not hesitating: "I would speak with Yuyutsu," she said. "Only after hearing his heart will I let everyone know my decision."

A murmur of approval ran through the chamber, but she was not done. Her gaze shifted to Krishna, her brother in all but blood. "And when I do," she continued, "I would have Brata Shri Krishna with me."

A smile played upon Krishna's lips, and Balarama exhaled quietly as though approving of her resolve.

Bhishma nodded, his respect deepening, "Then so it shall be. The future shall be forged not by obligation but by choice."

And thus, the wheels of destiny turned—not in haste, not by force, but by the quiet, resolute will of a woman who would not let fate dictate her path.

A Meeting Beyond Mortality

The moon cast a silvery glow upon the secluded grove where three figures sat—three beings far beyond the limitations of mortality yet bound by the circumstances of this retelling of destiny. The night's breeze carried whispers of the universe, and the rustling leaves murmured secrets of past yugas.

Yuyutsu, the mortal embodiment of Mahadev, closed his eyes. With a mere thought, a silent field of energy rippled outward, sealing their words away from anyone who might listen. No sound would escape this sacred space. No ears but theirs would bear witness to the conversation that was about to unfold.

Shri Krishna, seated with effortless grace, observed them both—one, the eternal ascetic bound in mortal flesh, and the other, a fragment of Adi Shakti herself. His dark eyes glowed with knowing amusement, yet his words showed unmistakable sincerity as he finally spoke, "Now, in Panchala, Niyati had promised me that she would marry you," Krishna said, his tone neither demanding nor questioning—merely stating a truth that could not be denied, "And, at the same time, Mahadeva, you too said that if she agreed, you would wed her. Then, what is the issue?"

Yuyutsu's gaze was distant, as though peering beyond the veil of time itself. He exhaled deeply. His voice was calm and resonant yet laced with an ancient sorrow, "It is not about me, Narayan. It never was," he said, his eyes turning to Niyati, who remained composed beside him, "Devi Niyati is not fully inclined toward the bindings of marital life. And I understand that perspective."

He paused, his voice dipping lower as though speaking from the depths of his very being, "Once, Narayan, I did not relinquish my solitude even during Sati. After her sacrifice, when Parvati stood before me—radiant, unshaken in her devotion—I did not embrace her immediately. Not because I did not recognize her, not because I did not love her. But because I knew the pain of attachment. To bond, only to be torn away... that is not suffering easily endured."

Shri Krishna's ever-smiling face remained unreadable. He listened.

Yuyutsu turned fully toward him now, his expression unreadable, yet his words carrying the weight of all that was eternal, "We are not bound by time, Narayan. You descend with Devi Lakshmi in every yuga, as unshakable as the cosmos. And I... I have always been with every incarnation of Adi Shakti. If she is Meenakshi, I am Sundareswarar. If I am Vishwanath, she is Vishalakshi. There is no birth where we do not find each other."

His voice grew softer as his eyes flickered toward Niyati, his divine counterpart in this cycle of fate, "But Devi Niyati is a fragment of Adi Shakti, just as I am a fragment of Sadashiv. And if we ever bond, Narayan, it is not a bond that can be forsaken. It is not a bond of mere lifetimes but a force beyond our comprehension. And yet, I know you, Narayan. You see a greater reason for this marriage. You seek an heir for the Kuru line who will uphold dharma beyond this age. But this bond... is it not beyond the matters of lineage?"

Shri Krishna watched them both, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns in the soil. A moment of silence stretched between them before he finally spoke, "You are both fragments of something eternal," he admitted, his voice losing its usual playfulness, "And yet, Mahadev, the moment this retelling concludes, Niyati will return to her cosmic fate. She will be guided by Para Niyati herself. She will no longer exist as she does now."

His eyes darkened, betraying a rare flicker of sorrow, "And you? You will never hear from her again."

The words hung between them, heavier than even the celestial bodies in the sky, "We must ensure the establishment of dharma," Krishna continued, "We cannot bind ourselves to mortal emotions when we are the forces that drive existence forward."

Yuyutsu let out a low chuckle, but there was no mirth in it—only an understanding that transcended words.

"You say this to me, Narayan?" he asked, his voice like a distant storm, "Have you forgotten?"

Krishna's brow arched though his eyes betrayed no surprise.

Yuyutsu tilted his head slightly, his voice dipping into a hauntingly whisper, "When Devi Sita left with Bhudevi in Treta Yuga, you lost yourself to sorrow. You wished to end the world itself, Narayan. You wished to bring the great cycle to a halt. I had to descend to stop you. Did you forget that?"

A silence stretched between them, dense with the echoes of lifetimes long past.

And then Krishna chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "No, Mahadev," he murmured, "I did not forget."

His fingers curled around a blade of grass, twirling it absently, "I wept when Radha left," he admitted, his voice carrying no pretence, "I wept when Rukmini's heart bled in sorrow. I wept when my sixteen thousand wives suffered under Narakasura's tyranny—for they are all parts of my Lakshmi. Do you believe I am unfamiliar with pain?"

His gaze lifted, sharp as lightning, "But tell me, Mahadev... what is that guilt about?"

Before Yuyutsu could answer, another voice cut through the night, "Enough." Both gods turned to Niyati, who stood between them. Her eyes were unwavering, filled with determination unshaken even by the forces of the cosmos.

She looked at Yuyutsu, her voice steady, and declared, "We will marry for the sake of dharma, Mahadev. We must so that I may remain with the Pandavas without question. So that the world may see the rightful path upheld."

Yuyutsu opened his mouth, but Niyati was not done.

Her voice softened, but the strength in it remained, "But when it comes to the bond between us, I am Niyati, and you are Mahadev. Nothing more, nothing less."

A knowing silence passed between them.

She turned to Krishna now, her expression unreadable, "As for the heir of the Kuru family... just as Kartikeya was born from the divine force of Mahadev and Agni, the son meant for this lineage will be born from the very essence of our power."

Krishna's brows knit together, "Niyati—"

She lifted her hand, stopping him. Her voice was gentle yet unyielding, "And in this way, you will not betray Devi Parvati."

Yuyutsu exhaled deeply, something unreadable flickering across his features.

"Every essence of Adi Shakti is bound to Sadashiv," Niyati continued, "but that tie does not necessitate a marital bond that would make you feel as though you are forsaking your wife. I, Niyati, will never cross that line with you, Mahadev."

There was only one who looked at her, hurt beyond words.

Shri Krishna.

Their eyes met, and his voice echoed through the space between them—not spoken, but felt, "What is this?"

Niyati's reply was immediate, sharp like the edge of a blade, "You asked for marriage. I am fulfilling it."

A breath of hesitation, then, "But not like this. I wanted you to have a marriage, Niyati. Truly."

She held his gaze as she answered, her voice softer yet unwavering, "Not everyone is as fortunate as you, Narayan. Not everyone has a companion like you. I am content with my duty. Let us not entangle ourselves in mortal attachments."

With that, she severed the telepathic link.

And as she turned, walking forward with Yuyutsu and Krishna beside her, they approached the waiting crowd. She stood tall before them all, and in a voice that left no room for doubt, she declared, "Begin the celebrations."

A Brother's Doubt

The air was thick with festivity. Laughter rang across the grand halls of Hastinapura as golden lamps flickered like a thousand stars, their glow reflecting upon the joyous faces of those gathered. The scent of sandalwood and fresh blossoms wafted through the night, mingling with the melody of the veenas and flutes.

Yet, amidst the sea of jubilant faces, one pair of eyes remained troubled. Arjuna's gaze lingered on Niyati. She stood beside Yuyutsu, serene and composed, but there was something beyond the surface, something only a brother's heart could discern.

Unable to shake the feeling gnawing at his soul, Arjuna stepped away from the gathering. His feet reached Krishna, who watched the celebrations with that ever-knowing smile.

"Madhava," Arjuna called, his voice carrying an unusual weight.

Krishna turned to him, his dark eyes twinkling in the golden glow, "Hmm?"

Arjuna stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Is she pleased?" he asked, searching Krishna's face for answers, "Why do I feel something different?"

Krishna chuckled softly, knowingly, "Nothing like that, Partha," he said lightly.

But Arjuna was not convinced. "No, Madhava. I know her. Something is wrong," he insisted, his voice firm, unwavering. "Is Brata Yuyutsu unwilling to marry her? Or is she the hesitant one? She told us once that if there was ever a man she would marry, it would be Brata Yuyutsu. Then why does this not feel right?"

Krishna remained silent, his smile never faltering, but Arjuna pressed further, "Madhava, are we forcing her into this? Is she choosing duty over her own will? If that is the case, we are going against the foundation upon which Indraprastha was built. You know the Amba law—no woman shall be bound to marriage against her heart's consent."

At this, Krishna's eyes flickered—an infinitesimal shift so brief that none but one as perceptive as Arjuna would have noticed. Yet the divine smiled again, stepping closer to his dearest friend and touching his shoulder.

"Partha, trust me. There's nothing like that," Krishna said softly, "There are things that transcend the laws crafted by men. Some duties weigh heavier than personal desires. Niyati understands this and is happy because she is fulfilling what she was meant to do."

His words had no falsehood, yet Arjuna's heart refused to rest.

Krishna gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before turning away and walking toward his family. This left Arjuna standing in the middle of a crowd that no longer felt as joyful. His hands curled into fists as he glanced back at Niyati. Her lips bore a small smile. Her posture was poised, graceful, and unwavering.

And yet...

Arjuna's heart whispered otherwise.

A Wedding Like No Other

The next day's dawn painted the sky in hues of gold and crimson as if the very heavens were blessing the occasion that was about to unfold. The air was thick with anticipation as the grand halls of Indraprastha stirred to life with the hum of preparations. Servants bustled about, flowers were woven into garlands, and the fragrance of sandalwood and fresh jasmine filled the air.

Amidst this flurry of activity, Bhishma, the pillar of the Kuru lineage, rose with the first light. His voice, ever profound and resolute, rang through the halls.

"Vasudeva," he said, turning towards the elder of the Yadavas, "As per the sacred traditions, the wedding should take place in Dwaraka. However, this kingdom—Indraprastha—was only recently established. Would it be acceptable to hold the marriage here instead?"

Before Vasudeva could answer, Shri Krishna, the orchestrator of destiny, stepped forward with a smile, "Guru Devavrata," he said, addressing Bhishma with the utmost respect, "There is no greater blessing than for Indraprastha to begin its journey with such an auspicious occasion. A wedding like this will sanctify the land and nurture it towards prosperity. We stand with you in this decision. Moreover, we have the presence of Rishi Vyasa, Maharishi Atri, Guru Vashishtha, and the divine Mata Anasuya and Mata Arundhati. What more could we ask for?"

Hearing his son's words, Vasudeva turned to his wives—Rohini and Devaki—seeking their silent counsel. A single nod from them was enough for him to make his decision.

"Then so be it," Vasudeva declared, "Let the preparations begin. But Yuyutsu is the son of Maharaja Dritarashtra. We must inform him of this union. It is only right that he and Maharani Gandhari be present for the wedding."

Bhishma nodded in agreement and turned to Vidura, "Vidura, you shall accompany Arjuna to Hastinapur. Inform Dritarashtra and Gandhari. Tell them this is not merely an invitation—it is a summons. They must be here."

Then, Bhishma turned back to Vasudeva with a thoughtful expression, "We must also call Maharaja Ugrasena and the Yadava elders. Dwaraka must be represented in full strength. There are many invitations to be sent, many dignitaries to be summoned."

Before Bhishma could continue, Nakula, the ever-chirpy one, smirked mischievously, "Pitamah," he said teasingly, "I never thought I would see you so excited about a wedding."

Laughter erupted around them, but Bhishma only smiled—a rare, serene smile that carried the weight of countless years and unspoken emotions, "Putr," he said, "I once dreamed of celebrating all of your weddings with grandeur, of seeing each of you wed in a manner unparalleled in Aryavarta. But fate had other plans. It took from me the joy of seeing those dreams come true." His voice softened, carrying the weight of a life lived for duty alone, "But this wedding... this is different. This wedding is special to me."

His gaze turned to Niyati, who had just entered the hall. Her presence was like a quiet breeze that carried both comfort and strength. His voice grew softer, reverent even, "You all know my journey with this soul," Bhishma continued, "She has been my sister, mother, and guide. And now, she will be the Kuru Kulvadhu—the daughter-in-law of this dynasty."

His voice grew stronger as he turned to Krodhini and Stambhinī, "Putri, summon the finest jewellers in the land. I will personally select the adornments." Then, his gaze shifted to Draupadi, "Maharani, send word far and wide. Tell them this is Bhishma's call. No one shall refuse."

And then, with the fire of a warrior and the pride of a patriarch, Bhishma declared, "I shall personally summon the celestial beings. Every force in the universe shall bear witness to this wedding!"

At that moment, Niyati stepped forward. The regal calmness in her eyes met Bhishma's unwavering gaze. The great patriarch walked towards her, taking her hands in his own, "One of my greatest desires was to see you wed into this family, Putri," Bhishma confessed, his voice holding rare emotion, "And you are marrying my Yuyutsu—the child I raised as my own. I could not have chosen better."

He then turned to Yuyutsu, his voice suddenly firm, carrying the weight of an unshakable command, "Putr," he said, "Never hurt her. And hear me well—I forbid you from taking another wife after her."

Silence fell like a heavy curtain upon the hall. Gasps rippled through the gathering. Kunti, who knew Bhishma's rigid adherence to expanding the dynasty through alliances, was visibly startled. Bhishma had never placed such a restriction upon any Kuru prince before.

"Promise me," he commanded.

Yuyutsu, unwavering as ever, stepped forward. His voice was steady, resolute, "Pitamah," he said, "As I have said before, I cannot be anything but hers. In this life, as Yuyutsu, she is the only wife I will ever take."

Bhishma exhaled deeply, his pride evident. Without another word, he pulled Niyati and Yuyutsu into a rare embrace—a gesture so uncharacteristic of the mighty Bhishma that it left many in silent awe.

Finally, as the moment passed, Bhishma straightened himself. "There is much to do," he said, "I must speak with Maharishi Atri and Guru Vashishtha to determine the most auspicious date for this wedding."

And with that, the great patriarch of the Kuru dynasty walked away, his heart lighter than it had been in a long time.

The Wisdom of the Sages

Bhishma strode into the sacred ashram, his white robes flowing like the tides of the Ganga, his presence exuding the weight of a man who had seen the rise and fall of dynasties yet whose heart still sought the wisdom of those beyond time. Within the tranquil abode, seated beneath the ancient banyan tree, were the revered sages—Maharishi Atri and Maharishi Vashishtha—beings whose knowledge transcended ages, whose words bore the weight of the cosmos.

Beside them sat the revered Anasuya and the luminous Arundhati, embodying devotion and wisdom. These were not mere mortals but forces of dharma itself, pillars that had upheld righteousness since immemorial. Their eyes, alight with divine foresight, gleamed as they saw Bhishma approach.

Bhishma folded his hands, bowing low, "Guru devas, Mata Anasuya, Mata Arundhati, your blessings are the foundation upon which dharma rests. I come before you today not as a warrior or the protector of the Kuru throne but as a seeker of your wisdom. The marriage of Yuyutsu and Niyati is upon us, and no union can be complete without the blessings of those who have seen the journey of souls beyond the limits of time."

Atri smiled, his serene face reflecting the stillness of a lake untouched by the turbulence of the world, "Devavrata, we have known of this union long before it was spoken. Niyati's birth on Pridhvi was not without purpose, nor is Yuyutsu's path entwined with hers by chance. Even at the time of her descent into the mortal world, we foresaw this moment."

Vashishtha nodded, his gaze resting upon Bhishma with the affection of a teacher who saw his student's embodiment of discipline and virtue, "This wedding, Devavrata, is not one of mere mortals—it is the convergence of cosmic forces. It is a bond beyond the limitations of life and death, beyond duty and desire. It must be sanctified at the most auspicious time."

Bhishma listened with reverence, his hands still joined in respectful supplication, "Then, Guru devas, what is the most sacred moment for this divine union?"

Atri and Vashishtha looked at each other, their silence speaking more than words, as if their souls had already communed in a space where time held no sway. Then, with a voice as deep as the chanting of the Vedas, Atri spoke, "Dev Uthani Ekadashi."

Bhishma's brows furrowed slightly. "Maharishis, a wedding on Ekadashi?" His tone was not one of resistance but of cautious wonder. Ekadashi—the day of fasting and penance, when the world abstains from indulgence and turns towards the divine. A day when marriages were never performed.

Atri smiled knowingly as if he had already anticipated the question, "Devavrata, I know your thoughts. Ekadashi is observed as a day of restraint in this world when mortals forsake worldly ties to seek union with the divine. Weddings, being celebrations of earthly bonds, are not performed on this day."

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle before continuing, "But tell me, Devavrata, is this union an earthly one?"

Bhishma was silent. He already knew the answer, "This is not a mere marriage of a man and a woman," Atri said, his voice imbued with the wisdom of the ages. "On this day, Narayana rises from His Yog Nidra. The universe awakens to new beginnings, dharma finds renewal, and all auspicious endeavours take root. What greater moment could there be for such a union?"

Understanding the depth of the words, Bhishma let a small smile grace his lips. He bowed, "Then it shall be as you have spoken, Gurudeva. The wedding shall be held on Dev Uthani Ekadashi."

As he turned to leave, his heart lighter with the certainty of divine will, Vashishtha's voice called him back, "Devavrata."

Bhishma paused, turning back, his gaze respectful.

Vashishtha's eyes, though gentle, held the weight of a command, "You have walked a path of discipline, duty, renunciation, and sacrifice. You have lived by the laws of men, upheld the rules of kingdoms, and bound yourself to the dharma of a throne. But remember this—do not bind Yuyutsu and Niyati to the same rules that govern the lives of mortals."

Bhishma's breath stilled for a moment. The words cut through him, not as a rebuke, but as a truth that demanded reflection.

Vashishtha continued, "You have seen lifetimes pass, Devavrata, yet you still think about earthly obligations. Do not attempt to confine the boundless into the laws of the limited. Yuyutsu is not merely a prince; Niyati is not merely a bride. This is a bond beyond duty, beyond rituals. Do not force them into the ways of men. A soul must seek union with Paramatma, not be shackled by the weight of worldly expectations."

Bhishma remained silent, absorbing the words like the earth absorbs the first raindrops. Then, after a long moment, he spoke, "Gurudeva, you have given me yet another lesson I shall cherish. I have always upheld dharma as I understood it, but today, you reminded me that it is not stagnant. It flows like a river, changing course with time, finding new paths when the old ones are blocked. I will not attempt to define their journey by the rules of the mortal world. I will let their path be their own."

Atri, Anasuya, and Arundhati exchanged glances, their smiles knowing.

"Then you have truly understood, Devavrata," Vashishtha said, a note of pride in his voice.

For the first time in many years, Bhishma felt something stir within him—a realization that perhaps there was still wisdom left for him to learn after all the battles fought and the vows taken.

He bowed deeply, "With your blessings, I shall ensure that this wedding is not just a celebration of a union but an acknowledgement of a truth beyond mortal comprehension."

With that, he turned and walked away, carrying with him not just the weight of duty but the understanding of something far more significant—love beyond attachment, union beyond marriage, and dharma that flowed not in rigid laws but in the wisdom of the eternal.