In the days that followed, the realms of Aryavarta witnessed two grand spectacles unfolding in parallel—on one side, the sacred union of Niyati and Yuyutsu neared its destined culmination, while on the other, the jewel of the Pandavas, Indraprastha, flourished like a celestial city descending upon the mortal plane.

Indraprastha was not merely a kingdom; it was an embodiment of prosperity, a testament to divine grace and the relentless efforts of its rulers. It shimmered with wealth beyond measure as though Kubera had chosen to make it his second abode. From the farthest corners of the land, Brahmanas, learned in all four Vedas, arrived in search of patronage, their voices weaving a sacred cadence into the air. Scholars, well-versed in every tongue spoken across the vast Aryan lands, found refuge here, where intellect was celebrated as fervently as valour. Merchants, their aspirations as boundless as the ocean, flocked to its bazaars, eager to partake in the city's boundless riches. Artisans, masters of myriad crafts, made their way to Indraprastha, drawn by the promise of recognition and prosperity.

The very earth seemed to have blessed Indraprastha with an eternal spring. Encircling the city like a garland woven by the hands of the gods were gardens of unparalleled splendour where nature flourished in blissful abandon. Towering amra and amrataka trees bore golden-hued mangoes, their fragrance mingling with the intoxicating scent of blooming champakas and Ashoka. The punnaga and nagapushpa spread their sweet aroma while the graceful nipas swayed in the gentle breeze, laden with blossoms. The mighty shala trees stood in stoic grandeur, their canopies sheltering weary travelers. Beneath the vast expanse of kadamba and Bakula trees, lovers whispered secrets, their words lost amid the song of cooing cuckoos.

Indraprastha was a sanctuary not only for humankind but also for the feathered denizens of the skies. Frenzied peacocks danced in euphoric abandon, their iridescent plumes reflecting the sun's brilliance. Cuckoos, lost in the intoxication of spring, sang melodies that stirred even the most hardened hearts. Swans and geese glided serenely across the crystal-clear waters of pristine lakes while the chakravaka birds, inseparable in love, graced the sacred ponds.

The city itself was a marvel of craftsmanship. Houses, built of the finest stone and polished to a gleam, stood as though sculpted from mirrors, reflecting the sun's golden rays. Ivy-clad bowers provided shade and solace, while artificial hillocks, designed to delight the eye, stood as testaments to the ingenuity of Indraprastha's architects. At the city's heart, ponds and tanks brimmed with pure water mirrored the heavens. Lotus blossoms, delicate yet resplendent, bloomed in hues of crimson and gold, their fragrance carried by the whispering breeze.

Everywhere one looked, Indraprastha was a vision of divine artistry. In this kingdom, prosperity was not merely measured in gold and jewels but in the harmony of its people, the wisdom of its rulers, and the sanctity of its purpose. It was a city where Dharma reigned supreme, where the echoes of past sacrifices and future glories intertwined, whispering the stories of destiny yet to unfold.

The Weight of Many Roles

The grand halls of Indraprastha shimmered under the soft glow of a hundred oil lamps, their golden flames dancing upon walls inlaid with intricate filigree. The scent of fresh marigolds, sandalwood, and saffron wafted through the corridors, mingling with the soft laughter and chatter of the women gathered in the royal chambers.

Preparations for Niyati and Yuyutsu's wedding had taken over the palace, and the household women had immersed themselves in every minute detail.

Draupadi, seated at the centre of the room, had an open scroll listing the expenses before her. Next to it lay samples of fabrics, strings of uncut gems, and a platter of fragrant haldi and Kumkum. Beside her, Kunti, Aruni, Devaki, Rohini, Krodhini, Stambhinī and several royal attendants were discussing everything from guest lists to the bride's ornaments.

"The bride must wear nothing but the finest silk," Devaki insisted, her fingers running over a roll of deep crimson Benarasi fabric embroidered with golden vines, "She is Vasudeva's daughter, a Yadava princess. Her garments should reflect her lineage and her new home's dignity."

Rohini nodded in agreement, "This shade of crimson will be perfect for the wedding ceremony. But for the Gauri Puja, she should wear something in royal blue—like the color of the evening sky when it first meets the stars."

Krodhini, who had been busy arranging the bridal jewelry, chimed in, "The goldsmiths from Mathura have sent a new set of navaratna bangles. And these," she held up a pair of intricately carved anklets, "are studded with pearls from Dwarka's shores. When she walks, the sound should be like the gentle lapping of the waves."

Kunti smiled, watching the women engaged in their joyous discussions. She turned to Draupadi, who was quietly studying a ledger, "Putri, what do you think?"

Draupadi looked up, her fingers instinctively tapping against the scroll, "The colors are perfect, but we must ensure the embroidery does not weigh down the garments. The bride must feel free, not burdened."

Stambhinī laughed, "Ever the practical Maharani! And what of the jewelry? Should we replace the gold-threaded waist belt with one of the rubies?"

Draupadi glanced at the shimmering belt in Stambhinī's hands, "No, rubies will be too heavy with the layered silk. Instead, pair it with an emerald-studded belt. It will balance the hues and still reflect her grandeur."

Just then, a palace attendant entered hurriedly, bowing deeply before announcing, "Maharani Draupadi, Maharaja Yudhishthira seeks your presence."

Draupadi barely had time to react when another attendant stepped forward, "Yuvraj Bhimasena is calling for you, Maharani. He requests your counsel in finalizing the wedding feast."

A third attendant entered right behind, "Maharani, Rajkumar Arjuna is preparing to leave for Hastinapur. He seeks your presence before his departure."

Before Draupadi could respond, two more attendants rushed in, breathless.

"Rajkumar Nakula wishes to confirm the arrangements for the guests."

"Rajkumar Sahadeva needs your guidance on the ceremonial rites."

A sudden silence fell over the chamber. Five voices. Five directions pulling at her all at once.

The women in the room exchanged glances, aware of the impossible demand placed upon their queen.

Draupadi's hands tightened slightly on the silk folds of her sari. For the past five years, she had walked this path—balancing the needs of Hastinapur, the duties of her position, and the expectations of five husbands. But today, for the first time in a long while, she felt the sheer weight of it.

Her gaze flickered toward the attendants. Then, with a quiet resolve, she said, "I will go to Rajkumar Arjuna first. He is leaving for Hastinapur, and I must see him off."

She rose with graceful determination, adjusting the edge of her veil as she walked out.

Devaki watched Draupadi disappear down the corridor and turned to Kunti with a frown, "How does she do this, Kunti? Managing Indraprastha, overseeing the treasury, keeping the accounts balanced, organizing this grand wedding... and still, she must answer the call of each of her husbands. How long can she carry this burden?"

Kunti remained silent, her heart heavy with an unspoken truth.

"She was raised as a princess of Panchala, but here, she is not just a queen," Devaki continued, her voice laced with concern, "She is the backbone of this kingdom, the one who holds everything together. But even the strongest pillars crack under too much weight."

Kunti sighed, "She is fire, Devaki. And fire consumes itself while giving light to others."

"Then stop her before she turns to ash," Devaki pressed, her voice urgent, "Mata Anasuya said woman should devote to her husband? In this way, how can she perform all the duties when she has no time to breathe air for herself?"

Kunti exhaled deeply. She knew Devaki spoke the truth.

A mischievous voice interrupted, "If you cannot help her, Bua, perhaps I can."

They turned to find Krishna standing at the doorway, his golden-yellow pitambara draped casually over his shoulder, his eyes twinkling with amusement and understanding.

"Krishna..." Kunti breathed as if her worries could finally find words.

Krishna grinned, stepping forward, "Tell me, Bua, do you need special ornaments? Now that you are Varavatsala (Mother-in-law) of Niyati, should I commission a golden tiara for you?"

Kunti chuckled despite herself, "Not gold, Krishna. I need something more precious."

Krishna raised an eyebrow. "And what would that be?"

She looked in the direction Draupadi had gone. "A promise... that you will look after her."

Krishna's teasing expression faded, replaced by quiet understanding. He followed Kunti's gaze and nodded, "Krishnaa is not just fire, Bua. She is Yagnaseni, the sacred flame that sustains dharma. But even yajna needs offerings to burn bright."

Kunti sighed. "I fear she will forget herself in the weight of all this."

Krishna smiled softly. "She will seek me when she is ready. And when she does, I will remind her of who she truly is."

A quiet understanding passed between them.

And as Krishna turned to leave, Kunti whispered to herself, "Let her not lose Draupadi in the weight of being Indraprastha's queen and being the wife of my sons."

Parting Words and Lingering Gazes

Arjuna stood near the grand entrance of Indraprastha, where his chariot awaited him. The cool morning breeze ruffled his garments, his fingers absentmindedly adjusting the bracer on his forearm. Beside him, Vidura stood in composed silence, his wise eyes scanning the horizon, waiting for Arjuna to conclude his farewells.

Draupadi approached, her anklets whispering against the marble steps. The light fabric of her sari swayed gently with her movements, yet her stride was firm and deliberate. Arjuna turned to her as she reached him, his expression shifting and softening, "So, you leave without your wife's blessing?" Draupadi teased, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.

Arjuna chuckled lightly, shaking his head, "How could I? Hastinapur's matters are delicate, and if I speak of Niyati's marriage, I must leave with the assurance that Indraprastha remains steady."

Draupadi crossed her arms, tilting her head, "Do you doubt me, Arya?"

Arjuna's gaze held hers momentarily before he replied, "Never. But sometimes, I wonder if I should doubt fate. You have too many burdens upon you, Krishnaa. I see it."

A flicker of emotion passed through her eyes—one she quickly masked, "I am not burdened. I am Indraprastha's Maharani."

Vidura, who had been watching silently, now spoke, "A queen should not have to remind herself of her crown, Draupadi. The weight of duty is heaviest when it is carried alone."

Draupadi glanced at him, her mind grasping the meaning behind his words. But she merely smiled. "A queen is never alone when dharma walks beside her."

Arjuna exhaled, his lips curving into a rueful smile. "Then let me not delay you from your duties. But, Krishnaa—" he paused, stepping closer, his voice dropping just slightly, "take some time for yourself too."

Draupadi's fingers twitched against the folds of her sari, but she did not let herself respond. Instead, she met his gaze steadily, "Return swiftly, Arya. Indraprastha will await you."

Arjuna nodded, then turned to mount his chariot. Vidura followed, but not before casting one last look at Draupadi—a silent acknowledgement of all that remained unsaid.

The chariot pulled away, its wheels carving soft lines into the dust of Indraprastha's courtyard. Draupadi exhaled, turning back—only to freeze.

They were all there.

Yudhishthira stood at the top of the steps, his gaze unwavering. Bhima leaned against a pillar, his arms crossed, his keen eyes watching her. Nakula and Sahadeva were a few paces behind, their expressions unreadable.

Draupadi's fingers tightened against the pleats of her sari for a moment before she straightened, lifting her chin.

Again, a choice stood before her. And so, she moved.

She walked toward Bhima first, her expression composed. "Regarding the food," she said softly, "I am collecting the tastes of Dwarka as well. By evening, I will have it ready for you."

Bhima's eyes softened. He said nothing, only nodding.

Turning to Nakula, she continued, "Once Arya returns from Hastinapur, I will finalize the guest list. Also, Pitamah should be consulted to add a few more names."

Nakula inclined his head. "I will speak to him at once."

Then, to Sahadeva, she said, "Regarding the ceremony, seek guidance from Maharishi Atri. His counsel will ensure that all rites are observed correctly."

Sahadeva bowed his head. "It will be done."

Finally, Draupadi turned to Yudhishthira. He had not moved. He stood there, gazing at her with an expression too composed to be indifferent, too guarded to be fully concealed.

A long silence stretched between them. Then, Yudhishthira spoke, his voice gentle yet laced with something darker beneath, "Arjuna alone has the right to demand your time first."

Draupadi's breath caught for the briefest of moments, but she did not look away. "He was leaving, and I had to bid him farewell."

Yudhishthira's lips curved into a faint, humorless smile, "And what of us, Panchali? Should we also take turns departing so that we may find space in your day?"

Bhima stirred at that, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he remained silent. Nakula and Sahadeva exchanged a glance. Draupadi held Yudhishthira's gaze, her chin lifting just slightly. "Is that truly what you believe, Arya?"

Yudhishthira exhaled, the tension in his stance shifting—though not dissolving. He did not answer her question. Instead, he stepped closer, his voice lower now, "You are not just Indraprastha's Maharani. You are mine. Ours. And yet, you always seem to belong elsewhere."

The words were quiet, but they struck deep.

Draupadi felt something tighten in her chest, but she did not falter, "I belong where I am needed."

The answer was diplomatic. Safe. But that is not necessarily true.

Yudhishthira studied her for a moment longer before nodding—slowly, deliberately. "Then tell me, Panchali—where are you needed now?"

A sharp question. A challenge. Draupadi exhaled softly. She turned, her gaze sweeping over Bhima, Nakula, and Sahadeva before returning to Yudhishthira. Then, she smiled—a slow, knowing smile. "With all of you."

And with that, she walked past him, leaving a silence heavier than any spoken word.

The Unspoken Burden of Love

The evening stretched wide, the sun's retreat painting the heavens in dusky gold and molten crimson. A breeze whispered through the lush gardens of Indraprastha, rustling the boughs of the flowering trees, their scent heady and intoxicating. The sounds of celebration still echoed faintly from the palace—the murmur of voices, the laughter of women embroidering silks and setting gemstones into golden bangles. Yet, Draupadi walked away from it all, seeking something she could not name.

She exhaled, allowing the cool air to fill her lungs.

And then, a sound.

A single note rising in the silence like the first drop of rain upon parched earth.

A flute.

It wove its melody into the air, soft yet piercing, an invitation rather than a command. It spoke of unspoken things— longing, tenderness, and sorrow hidden beneath joy.

Draupadi followed the sound, her feet moving of their own accord, drawn towards the source like a river to the sea.

And there, beneath the shadowed expanse of a kadamba tree, stood Govind.

His eyes were closed as he played, his fingers moving effortlessly over the polished wood. The moonlight gleamed against his peacock-hued silks, the faintest smile playing at his lips as if he were weaving secrets into the air with each note.

She did not speak, nor did she move closer. She only listened.

The melody faded, leaving behind only the whisper of the wind. Krishna opened his eyes, mischief twinkling in their depths, "Will you not ask me to stop, Krishnaa?"

Draupadi tilted her head. "Why should I?"

Govind smirked. "Because you were lost in thought, my flute only dragged you deeper."

She let out a soft chuckle. "Perhaps I did not mind being lost."

He studied her for a moment before extending his hand. "Come, walk with me."

Draupadi hesitated only a moment before placing her hand in his. It was a different kind of warmth—neither the fire of passion nor the comfort of duty. It was steady, unwavering. It did not demand. I did not expect it.

They walked in silence for a while, the grass cool beneath their feet. Then Krishna spoke, his voice teasing yet laced with something more profound, "So, tell me, my Sakhi, how fares married life?"

Draupadi let out a wry laugh. "You ask as if I have married one man, Govind. You forget—I have five husbands."

Krishna grinned. "Ah, indeed. But then, you are Panchali, are you not? Destined to be the beloved of five lions. Tell me, do they each roar differently?"

She laughed again, shaking her head.

Krishna's expression softened. "Krishnaa." His voice was quieter now. "Tell me the truth."

Her laughter faded. She exhaled, looking up at the moonlit sky. "I love them, Govind. Each of them."

She paused. "And yet..."

Krishna said nothing, only waited.

"It is not love that is difficult," she admitted. "It is balance."

Her voice grew softer. "They are five men, Krishna. Five different souls. Five different hearts. And I—I am but one woman. How do I be enough for all of them?"

She closed her eyes for a moment. "Yudhishthira is my king. He is wisdom and restraint, patience and righteousness. He never asks, never demands. But sometimes... I wish he would."

Her fingers traced the delicate embroidery of her dupatta. "Bhima is different. He does not hide his love. It is in his strength, in how he shields me from the world and holds me like I am something sacred. But he speaks little of emotions. And sometimes... I wish he would."

A soft breeze rustled through the trees.

"Arjuna is—" she faltered, then smiled faintly. "He is fire and distance. Passion and silence. He won me, yet often, he feels the farthest away. I know he loves me, but sometimes I wonder if his heart is always wandering."

Her voice grew quieter. "Nakula and Sahadeva... they revere me, honour me. But sometimes, I wonder—do they love me as a woman? Or do they love me as a duty?"

She turned to Krishna, searching his face. "How do I make them feel that I am theirs, completely, when I must belong to all five?"

Krishna listened, his expression unreadable.

Then he smiled. "You ask the question of a woman who loves deeply, Krishnaa."

She frowned. "Is that wrong?"

"No." He chuckled. "It is merely difficult."

She sighed. "Then tell me, Govind. You have so many wives. How do you love them all? How do you make each of them feel that they are enough?"

Krishna smirked. "Ah, but you see, Krishnaa, I do not love them the same way."

She blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Love is not one thread woven evenly. It is a tapestry; each thread is different yet part of the whole. I do not love Rukmini the way I love Satyabhama. I do not love Jambavati the way I love Mitravinda. Each is different, so my love for them is different."

He met her gaze. "The challenge, my dear Sakhi, is not in giving love but understanding how it is received. You are trying to love your husbands similarly, but they do not need the same kind of love. What Brata Yudhishthira needs is not what Brata Bhima seeks. What Partha desires is not what Nakula and Sahadeva long for."

Draupadi stilled.

Krishna smiled knowingly. "You are not failing, Krishnaa. You are simply learning. Love is not about being equal; it is about being true."

She swallowed, something easing in her chest.

Krishna extended his hand once more. "Will you let me be your friend, Krishnaa? Not your guide. Just your friend?"

Draupadi looked at him for a long moment before placing her hand in his. "Yes, Govind. My Sakha."

She was quiet for a long time, her fingers clutching at the edge of her dupatta, "How do I do it, Govind?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "How do I love them in different ways when I have so little time with each of them? Sometimes, they all want me at the same time."

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Like today."

Krishna remained silent, watching her intently.

She let out a humourless chuckle. "They called me one after the other as if I were an object to be claimed. And because I chose Arjuna—" she faltered, pain flashing in her eyes. Yudhishthira said I always choose him over the rest, neglect them, and love one more than the others."

She looked down, her voice thick with exhaustion. "Sakha... I don't know what to do anymore."

Krishna waited, his presence unwavering, his silence not of indifference but of deep understanding. Draupadi swallowed hard. "It has been five years, Govind." Her voice broke. "Five years of this... and I am so tired."

Her lips trembled, but she forced herself to smile, though it was a mere ghost of one. She wanted to say more, but the words caught in her throat.

"And Sakha..." She stopped.

Krishna gently reached forward, his fingers closing around hers, his grip warm and steady—offering, not demanding. He did not ask her to continue. He waited.

And then, as if that simple touch had unlatched something deep within her, tears slipped down her cheeks.

"They care for me, Govind, I know they do." Her voice shook. "But sometimes... sometimes they do not see me. Not truly."

She inhaled a shuddering breath. "They do not ask about the pain I endure each night when I stay with them."

Krishna's fingers tightened ever so slightly around hers.

"Do you know, Sakha, what it is like to be a virgin again and again?" Her voice was raw, barely above a whisper, each word weighted with an anguish so deep it was unbearable. "Every time, it is the pain of death and birth. Every time, I must surrender as if it were my first. As if I have never known them before. As if I must prove my love anew, devotion, purity, and belonging."

She squeezed her eyes shut as if the words hurt. "A woman's body was not meant to be reborn each night, Govind. And yet, mine is."

A sob escaped her lips. "I thought... I thought I had carved a space for myself within this marriage. I had found a rhythm, a way to belong to them all. But now..." Her breath hitched. "Now, I do not know how to love differently."

She swallowed hard, her nails digging into Krishna's palm. "I feel like I am failing."

Silence.

Not the cold, empty kind. But a silence filled with something profound, something sacred.

Krishna did not rush to speak. He did not fill the air with hurried reassurances or hollow comforts. Instead, he let her words settle, let her sorrow exist without smothering it.

And then, with the gentleness of a river smoothing over jagged stones, he raised his other hand and brushed away a tear from her cheek.

"Krishnaa," he murmured, "the burden you carry is heavier than any crown, any kingdom."

She did not answer. She only let the warmth of his presence anchor her, let his voice tether her back from the storm within. Krishna exhaled, his thumb absently tracing circles over the back of her hand. "Love is vast, boundless, limitless—but time is not."

He looked into her eyes, and for once, there was no mischief, no teasing—only an aching understanding.

"They love you, Krishnaa. But they are men. And men..." He let out a chuckle, shaking his head. "Men often believe love is a thing to be claimed, not nurtured. That a wife's presence is their right, not her choice."

He tilted his head. "But you are not just a wife. You are Yagnaseni. You are fire itself. And fire cannot be owned—it must be respected, understood, honored."

Draupadi's throat tightened.

Krishna's voice softened. "You are not failing, Sakhi." He smiled, faint and sad. She let out a shuddering breath. "Then what do I do, Govind?"

Krishna looked up at the sky as if searching for an answer among the stars. Slowly, he turned back to her, "As said, learn to love everyone differently and at the same time teach them too."

Draupadi frowned. "Teach them?"

"Yes." Krishna's lips curved slightly. "Teach them how to love you, Krishnaa. They do not know. Yudhishthira is wise, but wisdom does not mean understanding. Bhima is strong, but strength does not mean sensitivity. Arjuna is passionate, but passion does not mean patience. Nakula and Sahadeva are devoted, but devotion does not mean awareness."

Draupadi stared at him, her chest rising and falling.

Krishna smiled, squeezing her fingers. "You have given them everything, Krishnaa. It is time they learn to give you something in return."

Her lips parted, but no words came. For the first time in five years, someone had not asked her to endure. Someone had not told her to sacrifice, adjust, or give more. Someone had told her that she deserved to be loved in a way that did not break her apart. The breeze stirred between them, lifting the loose strands of her hair. And in that quiet, moonlit garden, Draupadi allowed herself to cry—not in sorrow, but in relief.

Because for the first time, she had been seen.

The Fate of Sunda and Upasunda

The next day, as the palace of Indraprastha buzzed with preparations, with the wedding date drawing near, a hushed murmur spread through the halls. Rishi Narada had arrived. Dressed in his simple yet luminous attire, he carried the wisdom of the ages and the mischievous glint of a storyteller who had seen worlds rise and fall.

Bhishma was the first to greet him, offering a respectful bow. "Rishi Narada, your presence graces us today. What fortune brings you here?"

Narada chuckled, his voice carrying the weight of celestial travels. "Ah, Bhishma, you now hold the mantle of Guru. Congratulations. And I hear there is a wedding in the family—Yuyutsu and Niyati, the daughter of Vasudeva and the sister of Krishna and Balarama. A joyous occasion indeed!"

Bhishma nodded. "Yes, and your blessings are most welcome. Come, the others will be pleased to see you."

Beholding the great Rishi, Yudhishthira rose immediately from his seat, offering Narada the most handsome one in the room. He presented the Arghya with his hands, the traditional gesture of honour. "Rishi Narada, having you among us is always a blessing. I hope your journey has been smooth?"

Narada accepted the offering with a serene nod. "The journey is but a ripple in the grand stream of time, Yudhishthira. How fares your kingdom?"

Yudhishthira smiled. "Indraprastha thrives, Rishivar. We stand strong by Dharma's grace and our elders' guidance."

Pleased, Narada blessed him before motioning for the king to sit. "Good, good. But tell me—where is Krishna? I believe he should hear what I have to say."

A messenger was sent, and soon, Shri Krishna arrived, accompanied by his wives—Rukmini, Jambavati, Satyabhama, and Miranda. His sons Pradyumna and Bhanu walked beside him, as did his brother Balarama, his parents, and the ever-loyal Satyaki. With his ever-knowing smile, Krishna greeted the celestial sage with a slight bow. "Narada, what stories do you carry today?"

Narada returned the smile before turning to Pradyumna. "Ah, the son of Krishna! My congratulations, young warrior, on your marriage with Rukmavati. May your house be filled with laughter and valour."

As the courtyards filled with laughter and conversation, Draupadi made her way into the gathering. She had taken the time to purify herself, ensuring she met the celestial Rishi with the reverence he deserved. Standing with her hands joined, her veil delicately covering part of her face, she bowed low before Narada. "Rishivar, my respects. May your wisdom always light our path."

Narada looked at her, his eyes holding a knowing depth. He blessed her before gently saying, "Now, Maharani, you may retire. There are matters I must discuss with your husbands."

Once Draupadi had left, Narada turned his attention to the Pandavas, "The renowned princess of Panchala is the wedded wife of you all. That much is known. But heed my words—there must be a rule between you. A rule to ensure that no discord arises among you because of her."

Bhima was the first to respond, "Rishi Narada, we have already established such a rule. No other may enter when we are with Draupadi in her chambers. To ensure this, whoever enters must leave his footwear outside. That way, the others will know and stay away. And more so, no one, not even our family, is allowed in the personal chamber where we all stay with Panchali."

Narada nodded, stroking his beard thoughtfully, "A wise rule indeed. But sometimes, wisdom is tested in ways unseen. When a wife is Sarvagunasampanna, gifted with every virtue, challenges arise that even the wisest do not foresee."

Yudhishthira furrowed his brows. "What do you mean, Rishivar?"

Narada leaned forward, his tone shifting into that of a storyteller weaving an ancient lesson, "Let me tell you of two brothers—Sunda and Upasunda. They were daityas of immense power, born in the lineage of the great asura Hiranyakashipu. They were inseparable—one soul divided into two. Never did they eat apart, never did they venture anywhere without the other. They spoke only words of kindness to one another and stood together in all things. With such unity, they resolved to conquer the three worlds."

His voice took on a hushed intensity as he continued. "They undertook terrible austerities in the Vindhya mountains; their hunger and thirst were forgotten. Their hair became matted, their bodies were covered in filth, and they survived only on air. So great was their penance that the very mountains belched smoke in response. The gods, alarmed, sought to break their resolve. They sent temptations—jewels, riches, the most beautiful women of the celestial realms. But the brothers remained unmoved."

The Pandavas listened intently as Narada's tale unfolded. "Then, the gods employed a crueller trick. Through Maya, they conjured illusions—visions of their mothers, sisters, and wives being chased and tormented by a demon, their garments in disarray, their voices crying out for help. But even this did not shake the brothers. They remained steadfast, unmoved. When the gods saw their unbreakable resolve, Brahma himself appeared before them. 'You have earned a boon,' he said. 'Ask what you will.'"

Yudhishthira's eyes narrowed. "And what did they ask?"

Narada smiled, his voice carrying a hint of warning, "They asked for strength, knowledge of all weapons, and the power to change form at will. And above all, they asked for immortality. But Brahma, bound by the laws of the cosmos, denied them that. Instead, he offered them a different choice—their deaths would not come from any being, any force, anything mobile or immobile in the three worlds... except from each other. And so, with that boon, they were unleashed upon the world, unstoppable in their conquest."

Narada, ever the weaver of fates, continued in his measured tone, "Having obtained those boons, the two brothers, the lords of the Daityas, who could no longer be slain by anyone in the worlds, returned to their home. Their well-wishers, seeing their triumph, were filled with elation. The great Asuras, now invincible, shed their matted locks, adorning themselves with crowns and lavish ornaments, their garments of the finest silk, untouched by blemish. Though it was not the season, they declared the Koumudi festival, celebrating their victory with unrestrained joy. In every house, the air was thick with revelry—voices echoing words of indulgence: 'Eat!', 'Drink!', 'Sing!', 'Give!' The Daitya city resounded with laughter, music, and the clinking of golden goblets. Time seemed to blur, years passing like fleeting moments in their unbroken merriment."

Bhima leaned forward, his voice rough with curiosity. "And they did not seek war at once? That is unlike the Asuras."

Narada chuckled, "Power breeds arrogance, O Vrikodara. The intoxication of victory is sweeter than battle. But intoxication wanes."

Yudhishthira, ever thoughtful, murmured, "And when the revelry ended...?"

Narada's eyes gleamed as he nodded, "When the festivities dulled, the two great ones turned their gaze outward. Conquering the three worlds became their desire. Seeking the blessings of their elders and well-wishers among the Daityas, arranging their vast army, consulting omens, and performing the required rites, they set forth. The hour was chosen carefully—under the ascendant Magha, they marched, weapons gleaming under the night sky, their forces an unbroken tide of warriors. With clubs, pikes, and spears, they moved as one, bound by a singular purpose."

Vasudeva's fingers tapped idly against his knee. "And the gods? They knew of this?"

Narada nodded gravely. "Oh, they knew. And they trembled. Knowing the boon that protected these two, the Devas abandoned their celestial halls. Indra's city fell silent, its thrones empty as the immortals fled to Brahma's abode. In their unchallenged wrath, the two Asuras crushed the Yakshas, the Rakshasas, and those beings that roamed the skies. The Nagas of the deep earth were subdued, the dwellers of the oceans silenced, and even the Mlecchas—those beyond Aryavarta—were brought to ruin. Their conquest was absolute."

Nakula, frowning, exchanged a look with Sahadeva. "Such power... unchecked... it is destruction without purpose."

Narada's voice lowered, "Purpose, you say? Oh, there was the purpose. To rule. To reign unopposed. And so, their ambition turned towards the very foundation of Dharma. They summoned their soldiers and spoke harshly, 'The Rajarshi and Brahmanas, through their sacrifices, their offerings, strengthen the Devas. It is they who ensure the gods' dominion over us. If we are to rule, they must perish."

Kunti gasped, a hand to her chest. "They sought to erase Dharma itself?"

Narada sighed. "Yes, Rajmata. And thus, began the slaughter. Across the lands, the rites were silenced. The sacrificial fires, upturned, smothered. The hermitages of great Rishis, once havens of knowledge, were torn apart. The soldiers of the Asuras shattered their vessels and desecrated their sacred grounds, and when the sages raised their voices in curse, the very boons that shielded their tormentors rendered their words powerless. Helpless, those men of wisdom fled, scattering like deer before the hunter's arrow."

Sahadeva, ever precise, frowned, "But the Rishis are not weak. Did none resist?"

Narada shook his head, "Oh, they resisted. But their penance and vows were no match for the invulnerability granted by Brahma himself. They were hunted. Sunda and Upasunda took the forms of rutting elephants, their temples oozing as they trampled sages beneath their massive feet. Sometimes, they became lions, then tigers, or vanished into thin air—appearing only to kill. Sacrifices ceased, prayers died on trembling lips, and even the heavens seemed to mourn. Once brimming with prosperity, the land became a wasteland of shattered bones and silence."

The silence in the hall was thick now, the weight of the tale pressing upon every listener.

"The very elements rebelled against such cruelty," Narada continued, "The sun dimmed, the moon wept, the planets veered from their paths. The stars flickered, and the denizens of the heavens knew despair. And so, with no other recourse, the Devarshis, the Siddhas, and the greatest Rishis sought refuge in Brahma's abode. They found him surrounded by the gods, Mahadeva present with Agni and Vayu, the celestial bodies arrayed in silent mourning. The sages, with bowed heads, recounted the horrors that had unfolded. They pleaded, 'Brahmadev, this destruction cannot continue. The balance of the worlds has been broken. You, who granted the boon, must now find the means to undo what has been done."

Krishna smiled slightly, "And Brahma, the Creator, what did he say?"

Narada's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Ah, Shri Krishna, do you not already know?"

Krishna only chuckled, gesturing for Narada to continue, "Brahmadev pondered momentarily, and then his gaze fell upon Vishvakarma, the celestial architect. 'O great one,' he commanded, 'create for me a maiden—one whose beauty shall be unparalleled, one who shall be desired by all who behold her.' And so, Vishvakarma, bowing before the Creator, began his work. He gathered the essence of all that was beautiful and precious from every corner of the three worlds. He adorned her with gems beyond counting, each more radiant than the last. Her form was a vision that had never existed—a woman crafted not of flesh alone, but of celestial splendour, her allure unmatched among gods, Asuras, or mortals."

The air in the chamber felt charged as if describing such a creation had drawn her presence into the room.

Narada's voice dropped to a whisper, "Thus, was Tilottama born."

Narada continues, "One day, Sunda and Upasunda went to sport in a rocky plain on the Vindhya Mountains, where the shala trees stood tall, their blossoms painting the air with fragrance. They had everything they could desire—luxuries fit for conquerors. They reveled in their supremacy, seated on grand thrones, surrounded by enchanting women. And then, she appeared. Tilottama, her beauty almost unearthly, wandered into the forest, plucking flowers as if oblivious to the power she wielded over those who laid eyes on her. Draped in a single red garment—simple yet impossibly alluring—she moved with an elegance that made the air around her pause. Slowly, she gathered karnikara flowers along the riverbank, each step bringing her closer to the two brothers.

By then, Sunda and Upasunda had drowned themselves in the finest wines. Their eyes, bloodshot from indulgence, locked onto the celestial maiden, and in that instant, desire consumed them. They rose from their seats, drawn to her like moths to a flame.

Both reached for her.

Sunda seized her right hand and Upasunda, her left. Their hearts pounded, not with love but with the drunken arrogance of those who believed everything should belong to them. Their wealth, strength, divine boon—everything had made them untouchable. And now, blinded by passion, they turned on each other.

Sunda's voice was sharp, laced with claim. "She is mine, Upasunda. My wife. Your superior."

Upasunda's eyes darkened. "No, she is mine. My wife. Your sister-in-law."

The air between them grew heavy. What had been an unbreakable bond now cracked under jealousy and lust? Their hands tightened around their terrible clubs, eyes locked in burning rage.

"I was first!" Sunda roared.

"I will not let you have her!" Upasunda spat.

And then, they struck.

Their mighty clubs crashed against flesh and bone, each blow fueled by the madness of possession. They fought like beasts, no longer brothers or warriors—just two men consumed by their own downfall. Blood poured from their wounds, staining the earth beneath them. Within moments, both lay lifeless, their bodies collapsed on the ground like fallen suns wrenched from the sky.

The women screamed, and their joy turned to horror. The daityas, once so sure of their rulers' invincibility, now fled in terror, vanishing into the depths of the underworld.

Then, silence.

And in that silence, the heavens opened.

Brahma himself descended, his radiance illuminating the ruin left behind. The gods and maharishis stood at his side, their faces unreadable. Tilottama stood before them, untouched, unshaken. She had been created for this moment and had fulfilled her purpose.

Brahma's voice rang with divine approval, "O Tilottama, fortunate one, your beauty is unparalleled. As your reward, you shall roam the world of the Adityas, your radiance so great that none shall be able to gaze upon you for long."

With that, the boon was granted. Indra was reinstated in the heavens, order was restored, and Brahma returned to his celestial realm.

But the lesson remained.

Narada leaned forward, his eyes intent on the Pandavas. Though calm, his voice carried the weight of wisdom, "Sunda and Upasunda were bound by blood, purpose, and an unshakable bond—until desire came between them. They were always together, always united. And yet, for a woman, they destroyed themselves. O princes of the Bharata lineage, I tell you this out of affection. Let there be no dissension among you over Draupadi. If you truly wish to please me, heed my words and act accordingly."

Silence filled the hall.

Yudhishthira, ever the one to think before he spoke, finally nodded, "Rishivar, your words carry great wisdom. But Arjuna is not with us—he is in Hastinapur with Kakashree Vidura. We will consult him and Draupadi before making any decision. I assure you, we will establish strong rules to prevent such strife among us."

A promise was made. But whether fate would honour it... remained to be seen.