The golden rays of the afternoon sun cast long shadows upon the walls of Hastinapur as Arjuna and Vidura rode through the city's grand gates. The air was thick with curiosity, the news of their unexpected arrival spreading like wildfire among the palace corridors. Soldiers and attendants exchanged glances, their hushed whispers carrying the weight of speculation. When Sanjaya was informed, he wasted no time relaying the message to Maharaja Dritarashtra.

Sitting upon his grand seat in the assembly hall, the blind king straightened slightly at the announcement. "Arjuna and Vidura?" His voice, though calm, carried an undertone of unease. "What brings them here?"

The Kauravas, assembled in the court, exchanged glances of intrigue. Among them, Rajkumar Anuvindha, one of Gandhari's sons, smirked and leaned forward. "Perhaps," he said, voice laced with mockery, "they have come to beg at our door, seeking the grace of Hastinapur." His words rang through the hall, sharp as an unsheathed dagger. Some of his brothers chuckled, emboldened by his audacity.

But before the laughter could swell, a stern voice sliced through the air like a whip.

"Enough, Anuvindha!" Gandhari's rebuke held the weight of thunder, freezing him mid-smirk. The court fell silent as she turned towards him, her blindfolded gaze carrying a force that needed no sight to be felt. "Is this how you speak to your elders? To Vidura, your Kakashree and Arjuna, a commander of Indraprastha?" She shook her head in disappointment, "Restrain your tongue before it leads you to ruin."

Anuvindha clenched his jaw and stepped back, his momentary arrogance crumbling under the steel of his mother's words.

Gandhari turned to Arjuna and Vidura, "Forgive the ignorance of youth. Tell us, what brings you to Hastinapur?"

Vidura stepped forward, his expression as composed as ever, though his voice carried an edge that none could miss. "We bring tidings of joy, Maharaj. The marriage of Mahamahim Yuyutsu of Indraprastha and Rajkumari Niyati of Dwaraka has been decided. We have come to formally announce the union and invite the royal family of Hastinapur to Indraprastha."

Silence descended upon the court like a shroud.

Dritarashtra's fingers tightened on the armrest of his throne. His breath grew heavy, and his lips parted slightly as if grappling with words he had not expected to speak. When he finally found his voice, it was strained, as though forced through the cracks of a breaking stone. "With whose permission?"

Vidura remained unmoved.

"He is my Putr," Dritarashtra continued, his voice rising, not in anger, but in something closer to a father's wounded pride. "How dare such a decision be made without my consent?"

Arjuna answered, stepping forward with his unmistakable warrior's presence. His gaze was unwavering as he said, "Pitamah Bhishma decided it."

The weight of those words struck Dritarashtra harder than any weapon ever could. A bitter truth lay within them. Yuyutsu was indeed his son, but had he ever been a father to him? It was his Tatshree, not he, who had guided the boy. It was Tatshree who had been his pillar, his mentor, his father in all but name. And now, the truth was laid bare before the entire court.

A hollow silence filled the space between them, but Arjuna did not falter. Instead, he turned to Gandhari and said, "Prathamamba, we have come to extend our hand in goodwill. We invite you to Mahamahim Yuyutsu's wedding. The day has been chosen; the rites have been prepared. We await your presence."

Before Gandhari could answer, a scoff echoed through the hall.

"Attend a Dasiputr's wedding?" Suyodhan's voice was laced with disdain, "You expect us to honour such a union?"

Some of the Kauravas nodded in agreement, their pride unwilling to bend.

Arjuna's fingers twitched at his side, but he forced himself to be still. The insult burned, but he swallowed it like a blade between his teeth. This was not the time to unsheathe anger.

But Gandhari's voice rang with a finality that allowed no argument. "I will go."

Suyodhana turned to her in disbelief. "Mata—"

"And so, will your Pitashree."

Dritarashtra stiffened, his lips parting as if to protest, but Gandhari did not grant him the chance. "If you refuse," she said, her voice steady as the mountains, "others will stand as his Pita. Tatshree already has. Will you now refuse him even a Pitashree's blessing?"

The air in the court grew suffocating.

Dritarashtra, a king, ruler, and man bound by his limitations, clenched his fists. Gandhari's words cut through his denial like an unrelenting storm. Had he not committed enough wrongs already? Would he let yet another stain mark his soul? His shoulders sagged, his expression unreadable as he exhaled slowly. Then, in a voice devoid of resistance, he said, "We shall depart at dawn."

Arjuna gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable, though his eyes held a flicker of satisfaction.

As the court murmured in surprise and the moment's weight settled, Dritarashtra turned to his assembled sons. His voice, though weary, was firm, "In my absence, Suyodhana shall rule Hastinapur." He paused before adding, "Along with his first wife, Queen Bhanumati."

A subtle shift passed through the hall. The decision had been made. The wheels of fate had turned once more. And somewhere in the silent corners of the grand palace, destiny whispered, for it knew that this journey to Indraprastha was not merely to attend a wedding. It was the beginning of something far more significant.

The Unwritten Bonds of Love and Duty

The grand procession from Hastinapur to Indraprastha was a spectacle befitting the occasion. Arjuna, Vidura, and the royal entourage, including Maharaja Dritarashtra, Queen Gandhari, and Sanjaya, travelled with attendants in a display of solemn grandeur. As their chariots crossed into Indraprastha, the city seemed to shimmer in the evening glow, its golden spires bathed in the hues of a setting sun.

Awaiting them at the palace gates stood Draupadi, flanked by the Pandavas. Their welcome was not merely one of formality—it was an embrace of honour, a recognition of bonds that, despite trials, endured. Draped in silks that mirrored the flames she embodied, Draupadi led the welcoming rites, offering Gandhari her due reverence while ensuring Dritarashtra's arrival was treated with the dignity befitting a monarch. Yet, beneath the grandeur, a quiet storm churned in her heart, unseen, unheard—at least for now.

Nightfall found Arjuna stepping into their private chambers, his gait slowing when he saw the sight before him. His brothers sat in a circle, their faces betraying the weight of a concluding conversation. And at the centre, with the stillness of a tempest waiting to unravel, sat Draupadi.

Arjuna sighed inwardly. He had been gone only two days, yet the air was heavy with something left unsaid. Without a word, he sat beside them, his sharp gaze flickering between Yudhishthira and Bhima.

Yudhishthira spoke first, "Rishi Narada visited us in your absence," he began. "He told us a tale that must not be ignored."

Yudhishthira recounted the legend of Sunda and Upasunda—the asura brothers who, inseparable and invincible, were undone by their desire for the celestial maiden Tilottama. The tale, spoken carefully, hung like an unspoken warning.

When he was done, Arjuna folded his arms. "We already have a rule, do we not?" he said. "None of us enters Krishnaa's chambers upon seeing another's footwear outside. Why should another be needed?"

Yudhishthira leaned forward, his tone measured but firm. "Because rules are but walls, Arjuna. They offer protection, but if they are weak, they crumble. Narada Muni spoke of not just the danger of desire but of assumption, entitlement, and neglect. Our bond is strong, but we must fortify it."

Bhima, who had been silent, now rose. His presence was always one of unshakable certainty, and tonight was no different. "I agree that we need discipline," he declared. "Yet rather than setting a new rule, let us strengthen the one we already have."

All eyes turned to him.

"Until now," Bhima continued, "if duty or urgency called for it, we have stepped into Draupadi's chamber despite the rule. But from this moment forth, that will not be tolerated." He paused. "Should anyone break this, he will take twelve years of brahmacharya upon himself."

Silence followed his words—a silence so profound that even the flickering torches seemed to be still.

"Twelve years?" Draupadi finally spoke, her voice a gentle ripple cutting through the quiet. "Why twelve, Arya?"

Bhima's gaze softened. "Because twelve years of celibacy is not merely a punishment—it is purification. It is discipline. It reminds us that no desire should ever be greater than our dharma. In that time, one turns inward, strengthens his resolve, and emerges tempered, wiser." He looked at each of his brothers in turn. "A man must think twice before stepping into a place he does not belong."

"But—" he continued, after a moment's thought, "this will not apply in times of true emergency."

Nakula raised a brow, "And what counts as an emergency?"

Bhima met his gaze unwaveringly, "A kingdom is not a cradle of peace. We do not live in a world where every day is filled with garlands and feasts. There will be times when enemies lurk in the shadows, and battles must be fought within and beyond these walls. If a moment of crisis comes—when urgency calls for it—then this rule shall be cast aside. But unless such a moment arises, it must be followed."

A heavy pause followed.

Then, Arjuna's quiet yet piercing voice cut through it. "What do you want, Krishnaa?" he asked, gazing at Draupadi. You have listened to us debate, to us decide. But what do you want?"

Draupadi tilted her head slightly, an unreadable smile touching her lips. "Dhanyavaad for asking, Arya," she said softly, "For once, for truly asking."

The words struck harder than any rebuke.

She sighed, looking at them each—these men who had vowed to be her protectors, companions, and equals, "I am no one to say anything, am I?" she continued. "You have already decided. You always decide."

Sahadeva frowned. "Then why do I feel," he asked, "that there is something you wish to say?"

Draupadi inhaled deeply, steadying herself against the storm raging within her. The flickering lamps cast long shadows across the chamber, but none darker than the ache weighing on her heart. She looked at them—not as the great Pandavas, not as warriors destined to carve history, but as men. The men who were her husbands, the men to whom she had surrendered her life, love, and very being.

And yet, how much of her did they honestly claim? She exhaled, her voice carrying the tremor of long-buried wounds, "Expect Bhima and Arjuna for the rest... I am merely a duty to fulfil."

The words landed like an arrow piercing through the silence. She saw the flicker in their eyes, the slight shift in Yudhishthira's expression, the way Nakula tensed, and the tightening of Sahadeva's jaw.

"A wife can feel it," she continued, her voice unwavering, "She knows when she is loved, when she is desired, and when she is nothing more than an obligation, a shadow standing beside her husband, never truly embraced."

Her hands clenched into fists.

"I know a husband can have many wives. That is the way of kings, the way of men. But a wife having many husbands—it is not unheard of. Then why... why is it that my love feels like a crime? If I seek warmth and offer my heart to those who give theirs to me, why do the rest of you watch as if I have stolen something that was never mine to take? Why do you look at me like I have crossed some invisible line?"

Her voice rose, the pain spilling into her words now, "My time—my time is mine. To whom I give it, to whom I offer my love, should be my choice. Because I am not just a queen to be shared, divided, and allotted in turns. I am not just a woman to be possessed."

She looked at them then, her dark eyes burning with emotion, "You all promised," she whispered, "that I would not be divided among you. That you would not make me feel like a possession, like an object passed from one to the other. But in these past years... have you kept that promise?"

Silence.

"Tell me, Arya Sahadeva," she asked, turning to him, "have you ever come to me with a heart free of hesitation? Tell me, Arya Nakula, have you ever looked at me and truly felt that I was yours rather than someone you must honour because duty demands it?"

She turned to Yudhishthira then, her voice now a mere whisper, "And tell me, Arya Yudhishthira... have you ever looked at me as a woman, or have I always been the price you paid for ambition, for dharma, for the fate of Hastinapur?"

She saw how they struggled and how their chests rose and fell under the weight of her truth. But she was not finished. "I grow with love, Arya," she said, her voice softer now but still unrelenting, "I bloom when nurtured and given the space to be seen. And if I have turned towards the arms that welcome me and sought solace in those who offer me more than duty, tell me, is that my fault?"

She let out a shuddering breath, "You tell me that I must be equal to all of you. That I must divide my love evenly, without question, without hesitation. But tell me, have any of you truly tried to love me the same? Have you ever reached out first, without the obligation of duty, without the chains of custom? No."

There was a sharp exhale. A single tear trailed down her cheek. "I'm not perfect. I am also learning how to love you all," she whispered, her voice breaking, "But are you even trying to love me?"

A silence stretched through the chamber—deep, unshaken, yet turbulent with the weight of what had just been said. Draupadi's words had not been flung in anger or mere frustration. They had been a revelation, laid bare in quiet agony. She stood before them, not as a queen or a wife bound by duty, but as a woman—yearning, breaking, seeking.

It was Yudhishthira who broke the silence first. "You are right, Panchali," he said softly, his voice stripped of its usual serenity and replaced with something raw, "A wife can feel when she is being loved and when she is merely a duty. And perhaps... I have given you nothing more than that."

Draupadi exhaled, her hands clenching at the sheer honesty in his words. She had not expected him to admit it.

"But do you know why?" Yudhishthira continued, his voice trembling at the edges. "Not because I do not love you. Not because you are merely an obligation to me. But because I feared—I feared you."

She frowned, taken aback. "You—feared me?"

He smiled, but it was a smile burdened with unspoken grief. "Yes. I feared the depth of my love for you. You are not just my wife, Ayonija. You are my dharma. And for a man like me, whose very life is built upon that one word, I feared what you could do to me if I let myself love you as a man rather than as a king, as a husband bound by duty. Because my love for you, Draupadi, is not something I could ever afford to lose myself in. But that does not mean it does not exist."

His voice cracked slightly, but he did not falter, "I love you in the only way I know how—with restraint, fear, and a distance that perhaps wounds you but protects me. Because, Krishnaa, if I ever let myself love you completely... I do not know if I will ever have the strength to put my dharma above you. And I must because the fate of so much rests upon me. And yet—" his voice softened into an ache, "—if I have made you feel unloved, if my distance has been a wound rather than a protection, then I have wronged you in ways I never intended."

Draupadi stared at him, her heart warring with the pain of understanding.

Then, Nakula spoke, "For me, Nityayuvani," he said, thick with emotion, "it was never about duty. But it was about unworthiness."

She looked at him sharply. "Unworthiness?"

Nakula gave her a sad smile. "You are fire, Draupadi—the very embodiment of it. And I have always seen myself as nothing more than the breeze that stirs it but never dares to consume it. You say that I treat you as duty, but no, Nityayuvani... I worship you from afar because I do not believe I deserve the depth of your love. Amongst the five of us, you burn the brightest. What am I compared to you? A shadow? A mere presence in the background?" His voice cracked, and his vulnerability was laid bare. "I never ignored you out of indifference but out of reverence. I feared I would taint something divine if I reached for you."

Draupadi felt a lump rise in her throat. Nakula, so gentle and noble, was always watching her, standing by her side but never stepping too close. Now she understood why.

And then Sahadeva, always the quietest of them all, spoke, "You think I do not love you, Panchami?" he whispered, "Then you have never truly seen me."

She turned to him, stunned. His eyes, always carrying the weight of wisdom far beyond his years, now held something else hidden in silence for far too long.

"I have never treated you as duty," Sahadeva continued, "but I have always known that I will never be your first choice. And that is the burden I have carried alone." He exhaled sharply, "I see how you look at Brata Arjuna and how you breathe easier when Brata Bhima stands beside you. I see the longing in your eyes when they walk away, the grief when they are gone. And I—I have always wondered, where do I stand in your heart, Panchami?" His voice wavered. "Do I have a place at all?"

Draupadi gasped, the sheer depth of his words stealing the air from her lungs, "You say you are torn between love and duty, but so are we," Sahadeva continued, "You think you are the only one divided? No, Panchami. We all are. We love you in different ways that we cannot always express. But we do. And yet, we know that for you, we are not equal. That truth, we have carried silently."

Tears burned at the edge of Draupadi's vision.

"And yet," Sahadeva whispered, "we have never blamed you. Love cannot be forced into balance; it flows where it must. And even if I am not the first in your heart, Panchami, I am still here and will always be here."

Draupadi's breath trembled as she looked at all five of them—her husbands, her kings, the men fate had entwined her soul with. And yet, in her pain, she had only seen her wounds, not theirs.

A sob tore from her throat as she collapsed onto the ground, her voice breaking like waves against the rocks. "Kshama (Forgive me) ..." Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sari, her shoulders shaking. "I only thought about myself. I failed you. I failed in this marriage."

Before her tears could stain the earth, five sets of hands reached for her at once. Yudhishthira was the first to kneel beside her. His palm was steady against her shoulder, and his voice was gentle yet firm, "You are our strength, Panchali," he said softly. "Without you, there is no us. Do you not see? We all have flaws. Not just you. Every relationship has its trials and storms but grows with time. And here, you are one, and we are five... we know how much it takes for you to hold us all together." His eyes, usually calm and unreadable, burned with something more profound, an understanding that had been long overdue.

Sahadeva took her hand, his grip warm, grounding, "We made the mistake of not speaking our hearts," he admitted. "And today, you have given us a lesson we should have learned long ago. This—" he gestured between them, "this is what we must nurture. We must not assume; we must not expect in silence. Communication, Panchami. That is the key. We must tell you how we feel, and you must tell us so we can navigate this together, not as separate pieces, but as one whole."

Draupadi swallowed past the lump in her throat, her heart aching with the weight of their love and words. She turned to Yudhishthira, who had always placed Dharma above all else.

"I will never say, keep your Dharma above me." Her voice was steady now, resolute, "Because I know now—I am a part of it."

She turned to Nakula, whose silence had often pained her more than words, "You are worthy of my love," she whispered, her voice trembling, "more than I am worthy of yours. And I see that now."

Her gaze then fell upon Sahadeva, her ever-thoughtful, ever-wise Sahadeva, "I have always loved you," she admitted, "I love the way you teach me Ayurveda, the way you speak of your dreams for a better world, the passion in your eyes when you talk about healing and peace... I see you, Arya. And I love you for all that you are."

And then, finally, she turned to Bhima. Her rock. Her warrior. The man who had burned for her, fought for her, loved her without restraint.

Bhima exhaled, shaking his head with a small smile. "We all make mistakes, Panchali," he murmured, "But remember what I told you once while we were cooking?"

Draupadi blinked through her tears, the memory rising between them like a warm flame. "Cooking is not just about food, Draupadi. It is about patience and balance. Too much fire, and it burns. Too little, and it remains raw. A pinch of too much salt overwhelms. A pinch too little, and it tastes empty. Relationships... love... they are the same. We adjust, we learn, and we grow. We do not throw the dish away because of one mistake—we correct it, we make it better."

Her lip trembled, and she nodded. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, Arya... I remember."

Ever silent and watchful, Arjuna spoke the final words: "Love is not measured in time spent, Krishnaa. It is measured in presence, devotion, and the space we carve for each other in our souls. If we failed to show you that, let this moment be our reckoning."

As they held her, all five lives intertwined with hers, Draupadi finally felt the warmth of something she had longed for—not duty or obligation, but love that was chosen, nurtured, and understood.

It was Bhima, once more, who broke the silence. "We will keep the rule," he said firmly, looking at each of his brothers. "But not as a law imposed upon us. Not as a shackle. Not as a mere precaution." His voice softened yet carried the same unwavering strength. "We will keep it as a vow that does not divide us but makes us worthy of Krishnaa's love, of her trust."

Yudhishthira, who had been silent in thought, nodded. "A rule enforced in fear serves no purpose. But a vow taken in understanding... that is different." He turned to Draupadi. "Panchali, this will not be a law that cages you. It will be a reminder to us—a reminder that we must not take each other for granted."

Draupadi looked at them, searching their eyes, "I do not ask for rules," she said finally. "I ask for intention. For presence."

Arjuna, ever perceptive, understood. He turned to his brothers, "Then let this vow not be a restriction, but a path—a path that makes us better, not just as brothers, but as husbands, as men."

Nakula and Sahadeva, always the quiet watchers, exchanged glances before Nakula spoke. "Then so be it."

Sahadeva smiled faintly. "A vow, not of limitation, but of devotion."

Bhima breathed and stepped forward, "Then let it be spoken. From now, no one would enter Draupadi's chamber when she was with another. And should any of us falter, he shall take twelve years of brahmacharya upon himself, not as a punishment, but as a purification, a means to realign himself."

He looked at each of his brothers, and one by one, they nodded.

Arjuna, the last to speak, turned to Draupadi again, "Does this ease your heart, Krishnaa?"

Draupadi studied them, her heart warring between caution and hope. Finally, she took a slow breath and nodded, "It does not erase the past. But it is a start."

And so, the vow was taken in words, and the silent understanding forged that night. A rule had been set. But more importantly, a promise had been made. Not just to uphold dharma. But to defend her.

A Daughter's Plea

The other side of the palace, Tapovan, stood as an oasis of tranquillity within the grand expanse of Indraprastha's palace grounds. It was a sacred retreat—a perfect blend of rustic simplicity and regal luxury. The enchanting abode, crafted from natural materials, seemed like an extension of nature, seamlessly merging with its lush gardens. The exterior walls bore intricate carvings of leaves and flowers, so lifelike that they appeared to sway with the gentle breeze.



As one stepped inside, the spacious yet intimate interior revealed vibrant murals depicting celestial scenes, polished wooden floors reflecting the warm glow of oil lamps, and elegant yet unostentatious furnishings adding to its sacred stillness. The air carried the soothing scent of sandalwood while the soft rustling of trees and the melodic symphony of birds infused an unshakable peace.



This was where Guru Devavrata lived. The mighty Bhishma, the once-feared commander and stalwart protector of the Kuru throne, now resided here—not in the grandeur of Hastinapur but in a humble sanctuary where silence spoke louder than power.

An unexpected voice broke Tapovan's stillness as he prepared to rest for the night. "Sanjaya, you here?" Bhishma's deep yet calm voice resonated through the hut.

Standing at the threshold, Sanjaya bowed with reverence, "Guru Devavrata, Maharaja, and Maharani are here to meet you."

A knowing smile touched Bhishma's lips as though he had anticipated this moment, "Let them come in," he said.

The moment Bhishma stepped outside, his gaze fell upon them—Dritarashtra and Gandhari, seated in the open space on the other side of the humble abode. The blind king's posture was stiff, betraying his inner conflict, while Gandhari's presence carried an air of quiet sorrow.



As Bhishma approached, Dritarashtra spoke, "Tatshree, I can sense... this is a different kind of living."

A faint chuckle escaped Bhishma's lips. "Yes, Putra. Such tranquillity... It has been ages since I last witnessed this. I am at peace now. Though I reside within the palace grounds, as you can both touch and feel, this abode, this simple retreat, is my home. I am no longer a statesman, Mahamahim. I have become a Guru.

He paused, his voice softening warmly, "Once Yuyutsu and Niyati's wedding occurs, I will officially begin my teachings."

Gandhari, who had not seen Bhishma's undisturbed happiness on his face in years, could feel his change: "I can feel your happiness from your words, Tatshree. You are at peace."

Bhishma nodded, "Yes, Putri. You have spoken the truth. I am at peace. At this age, what more do I need? I see Dharma taking its rightful place. I always questioned myself—was I genuinely serving Dharma? I had taken another vow... to remain celibate and ensure Hastinapur's lineage continued. But after Vasusena freed me from the duties of Mahamahim, I felt lively. Now, I serve Dharma in its purest form—not as a guardian of the throne, but as a Guru. I'm at peace. No one in my life has given me this happiness, Putri."

The weight of those words was like a dagger in Dritarashtra's chest. For all these years, he had seen Bhishma only as a protector of the throne—a pillar upon which Hastinapur stood. But never once had he stopped to ask what Bhishma truly wanted. A bitter truth dawned upon him for the first time—he had been selfish. He had never considered his Tatshree's desires, his peace.

Bhishma turned towards them fully now, his piercing gaze unwavering, "Tell me, Putra, and you, Kulvadhu—what brings you here at this hour?"

Gandhari took a deep breath before speaking, "When I first came to Hastinapur as a bride, you gave me your word, Tatshree. You told me that when in doubt or in pain, I may speak to you like my Pitashree. Have you forgotten that promise?"

Bhishma's expression softened.

"No, Putri. You will always be my daughter. You have sacrificed much for Kuru. Tell me, Putri... what pains you tonight?"

Gandhari's voice trembled, "You are not with us."

Bhishma stiffened. "Be more specific, Putri."

"Please come with us, Tatshree. Live the same life in Hastinapur... but guide my children too, just as you guide the Pandavas."

Bhishma's eyes narrowed, "And?"

Dritarashtra's brows furrowed, "What 'and'?"

Bhishma's voice grew sharp. "Tell me, Putri—can your sons receive my teachings? If they truly sought my guidance, would they have gone behind your back—behind my back—to learn Asura Niti from Guru Shukracharya's disciple in Kalinga?"

Gandhari gasped. "Tatshree! What are you saying?"

Dritarashtra's grip on his chair tightened. "You are lying, Tatshree."

Bhishma's gaze bore into him. "I have never needed to lie, Putra. What reason would I have to fabricate this? If you doubt me, I swear upon the Kuru lineage—it is the truth."

Dritarashtra's hands trembled as he grasped Gandhari's, "Then this is why you must return, Tatshree. Stay with us. Be with my children so they do not stray."

Bhishma's voice grew cold, "My question remains—what difference would my presence make? Will your sons listen to me? No. They only listen to Shakuni and Mantri Kanika—just as you do, Putra. They seek not Dharma but only words that please them. Why should I come?"

Tears spilt from Gandhari's sightless eyes, "Please, Tatshree... do not abandon us. You said I could speak as a daughter. Then this Putri begs you—come back. Scold my sons, strike them if you must, but do not let them tread the path of Adharma."

She rose from her seat and fell at Bhishma's feet.

Bhishma gazed down at her with sorrowful and unyielding eyes. He gently lifted her, but his voice remained impassive. "Putri, do not compel me. Do not seek my presence if you wish to save your sons."

"Then who, Tatshree?" Dritarashtra asked, desperation bleeding into his voice.

Bhishma's voice was measured, but it carried the weight of fate itself, "Protect your sons from the toxic influence of Shakuni and Kanika. As for Suyodhana, he has long been tainted by the darkness within. Recall how he callously poisoned Bhima in childhood. His malevolent nature knows no bounds. By allowing Shakuni and Kanika to manipulate him, you are recklessly fuelling a raging fire that threatens to engulf the entire kingdom."

His piercing gaze shifted to Gandhari, "Putri, tell your sons—they already have Hastinapur. They must not covet what the Pandavas build. If they rule with Dharma, they will need no Bhishma."

Gandhari's breath hitched, "But you will not come?"

Bhishma's voice turned steely, "Will they listen?"

Her silence answered him.

He exhaled, shaking his head, "Then you have your answer." A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. "Your silent screams, I can hear, Putri. But what can I offer beyond sympathy? Your children have already crossed the threshold of treachery at Varnavat. They tried to burn their brothers alive—and during the family meeting, Suyodhana did not hide his disdain. He openly declares that he despises breathing the same air as the Pandavas. He exists only to sabotage them."

Gandhari wept, her body quivering under the weight of the truth.

Bhishma's expression darkened. "You invoked my old promise to you, hoping to bind me with it... But what is that if it is not Adharma? You do not seek my wisdom—I seek my allegiance, my support in your children's crisis."

His voice was thunderous as he continued, "Then let me remind you of something, Putri. Your vow. Do you not remember? The day your son commits his gravest sin, you swore—you would curse him."

Gandhari clutched Bhishma's hands tightly, her voice breaking, "Tatshree..."

Bhishma's eyes bore into hers, "Tell me, what greater sin are you waiting for? What crime must he commit before you invoke your own words? Ensure he does not walk further down this path. Or if he dares to commit wickedness beyond Varnavat—if he stains Dharma with a sin blacker than fratricide—he shall face me. And when that day arrives, you shall have no choice, Gandhari."

His voice dropped into a chilling whisper, "You will have to curse your son." Gandhari sobbed uncontrollably, collapsing into Dritarashtra's trembling embrace. Bhishma turned away, his silhouette vanishing into the cold silence of the night.

A Spectacle

Kings, princes, ministers, sages, and nobles arrived in Indraprastha from every direction. Their motives were twofold: some came to witness the rising glory of the Pandavas' kingdom, and others, drawn by Sri Krishna's celestial wedding, could not resist the allure of another marvel unfolding before their eyes.

But amongst all the reasons that brought them here, one stood above the rest—the wedding of Niyati, a woman whose birth was a miracle. The heavens rejoiced the day she arrived on earth, the Sun and Moon gracing the sky together as the Akashavani proclaimed her divine purpose. And now, this woman, no ordinary princess, no mere mortal-bound bride—was to be wedded.

Yet, not to a prince.

Not to a king.

But to Mahamahim Yuyutsu.

And Yuyutsu himself was no ordinary man. His birth, too, had shaken the Aryavarta. The Bhootas and the Ghanas had danced in ecstasy, the cosmic forces rejoicing in his arrival, for he had been born with a purpose—to be the unwavering keeper of Dharma. This guardian stands between the fall of righteousness and the rise of Adharma.

This was not just a wedding. It was a confluence of destiny, a magnificent union that the world had never witnessed. As the ceremonies began, a hush fell upon the gathering. Eyes lifted to the sky as gasps escaped trembling lips.

Mata Ganga was descending.

Her celestial form flowed like liquid silver, her presence as serene as the moonlit tides yet carrying the immensity of a river that had carved mountains and shaped civilizations. She descended from the heavens, her radiance illuminating the land, and behind her, a sight that left even the greatest of sages spellbound.

The divine beings were arriving.

The Saptarshis themselves strode forward, their presence commanding the reverence of all. The Bhootas and the Ghanas followed, their energy untamed, their movements otherworldly. It was as if the cosmos had bent its rules for this day—as if the wedding of Mahadeva and Adi Shakti was about to occur again.

Bhishma, upon seeing his divine mother, immediately stepped forward. He bowed deeply, touching her feet with reverence. Behind him, the Pandavas followed, each seeking her blessings, their heads bowed in piety.

Then came Yuyutsu.

Yet, when Mata Ganga reached him, something remarkable happened. Instead of placing her hands upon his head in blessing, she bowed—a quiet, deferential bow.

A silence followed—so profound that even the wind seemed to pause in deference.

Bhishma watched, as he always did, with wonder in his eyes. His mother—the celestial river that purifies sins, the divine mother of kings and sages—bowed before Yuyutsu. It was a sight that stirred something deep within him.

Her voice rang clear yet soft as flowing water. "Today, I am filled with joy. I am honoured to be part of this divine wedding."

Yuyutsu welcomed her with a gracious nod. His demeanour was calm, yet there was a quiet power in his presence, a stillness that seemed to hold the very essence of Dharma within it.

Yet, while the heavens rejoiced, the Pandavas became curious. They observed the Bhootas and the Ghanas arriving, their forms strikingly contrasted with the royal splendour around them. These were no ordinary wedding guests. They belonged to Mahadeva himself—spirits that resided beyond the realm of men.

A crease formed on Sahadeva's brow as he whispered, "Brata Keshava... why are the Bhootas and the Ghanas here?"

Sri Krishna, watching with amusement, intervened before curiosity turned into concern.

His voice, as always, carried a divine playfulness laced with wisdom. "Let them come. They are his companions, after all."

Arjuna frowned. "Companions?"

Krishna chuckled, his lotus eyes gleaming. "Brata Yuyutsu learned from Mahadeva himself. There, he befriended them. Why should they not attend his wedding?"

The Pandavas exchanged glances, realization dawning upon them.

Yet, ever the inquisitive one, Sahadeva asked, "Brata Keshava, how do you know this?"

Krishna smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Arey, I am giving my Bhagini to him. Did you think I would allow her to marry without first learning everything about my Bhaginyah Patih (sister's husband)?"

A round of laughter followed, breaking the weight of the divine presence, and soon, all immersed themselves in the wedding celebrations.

The Benedictions of the Divine

The halls of Indraprastha shimmered in a celestial glow, the air thick with sandalwood and fresh marigolds, but even the earthly splendour could not rival the brilliance of those who had gathered. It was not just kings and sages who stood witness—it was time that paused to observe. The echoes of ancient Vedic chants resonated through the marble pillars, weaving their way through the golden draperies, their syllables carrying the weight of eternity.

At the heart of it all sat Yuyutsu, the man whom sacred vows and destiny would soon bind. Draped in white and gold, his posture was composed, but his eyes—those eyes—held the quiet intensity of a man who understood the gravity of this moment. He was not just accepting a bride. He received Dharma, responsibility, and the guardianship of a woman whose birth had been heralded by the heavens.



Before him stood Vasudeva, his expression both proud and pained. No father ever truly gives his daughter away—he merely entrusts her to hands he prays will never falter. The ceremonial tray in his grasp trembled slightly, not from doubt but from the weight of countless prayers whispered over the years.

The room fell into a hush as Vasudeva dipped his fingers into the vermillion and saffron paste, its fragrance laced with turmeric and holy ash. His voice, steady yet thick with unspoken emotion, broke the silence.

"Yuyutsu," he began, his gaze locked upon the young prince. "This tilak is not merely a mark upon your forehead—it is the faith of a father placed upon a man he entrusts his world to. It is a promise. A covenant. A bond that even death must honour."

He stepped forward, the golden tray reflecting the flickering flames of the yagna, casting shadows that danced upon the polished marble floors.

"Marriage is not just the union of two souls," Vasudeva continued, his voice growing deeper and reverberating through the hall, "It is the entwining of destinies, the merging of fates. In joy, she will stand beside you. In sorrow, she will anchor you. In battle, she will be your strength. In peace, she will be your solace. Do you, Yuyutsu, accept this not as a mere duty but as an unbreakable vow?"

Yuyutsu inhaled deeply, his hands folding in namaskar before him. His voice was unwavering when it came, "Mamashree, I accept not just Niyati's hand but her joys and sorrows as my own. My word shall be her assurance, my honour her shield. This I vow—before you, before the eternal Dharma itself."

A murmur of approval rippled through the assembly, but the celestial forces indeed bore witness. As Vasudeva's fingers pressed the tilak upon Yuyutsu's forehead, a sudden gust of divine energy swept through the chamber, stirring the sacred flames.

Then, the heavens themselves stirred. It was not merely an assembly of mortals but a confluence of time, of past and future converging. Maharishi Atri stepped forward, his face reflecting the wisdom of the cosmos. The moment was sacred and ageless, the murmurs of the Vedas woven into his every breath, "A marriage is not the binding of two beings—it is the confluence of two rivers merging into an ocean yet unseen. May you uphold Dharma not only as a warrior but as a husband, for the greatest wars are not fought with steel but with patience, understanding, and devotion."

Sage Vashishtha, the luminary of the Solar Dynasty, raised his hand in blessing, "A husband and wife are two halves of a cosmic truth—separate, yet incomplete without one another. Yuyutsu, let wisdom be your guide, for in wisdom lies patience, and in patience lies the foundation of an eternal bond."

Then came Maharishi Durvasa, his fierce presence like the fire of tapasya itself. His gaze bore into Yuyutsu, unflinching, unyielding, "The mightiest of warriors can crumble under the weight of falsehood. Let no deception enter your home—not in thought, word, or deed. A husband's greatest weapon is not his sword, but his truth. Uphold it or be consumed by its absence."

A ripple of awe passed through the assembly as the sacred river descended from the heavens. Mata Ganga, radiant as the moonlight upon rippling waters, stepped forth. "A warrior wields his sword with honour, but a husband must wield his heart with love. Your strength will be tested, Mahamahim Yuyutsu, not upon the battlefield but within the walls of your home. If ever your heart wavers, remember—love is not a weakness but a force stronger than time itself."

Then, in a burst of divine melody, Narada, the celestial bard, stepped forth, his veena resting lightly in his arms. "Ah, Yuyutsu," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Marriage! A battle with no war cries, yet many fallen warriors. Remember this—victory in battle is won through strategy, but victory in marriage? That is won through knowing when to speak... and more importantly, when to remain silent!"

Laughter rippled through the hall, lightening the solemnity, and even Bhishma, the stalwart guardian of Dharma, allowed himself the ghost of a smile.

Finally, Balarama, the bride's elder brother, approached, his frame imposing, his presence undeniable. His firm and heavy hand came to rest upon Yuyutsu's shoulder. "You are no longer merely a prince of Kuru," he said, his voice like the steady roll of thunder, "You are my sister's protector. If a tear falls from her eyes, know it also falls upon my heart."

And then, Shri Krishna himself—the Divine, the Eternal, the enigma beyond comprehension—spoke last. His smile, though gentle, carried the weight of the universe. "Ah, Brata Yuyutsu," he mused, "you have chosen a path sacred and perilous. Marriage is a yagna, an eternal fire in which ego, anger, and selfishness must be sacrificed daily. Love alone is not enough to sustain it. It is respect—the deepest kind—that makes a bond unbreakable. Respect her, Brata Yuyutsu, not just as your wife but as an individual, as a force of the divine herself. Only then shall your union be eternal."

And with that, the tilak was complete. But the echoes of their words—the promises, the benedictions, the unspoken oaths—would never fade.

For in that moment, Yuyutsu was no longer just a prince. No longer just a warrior. He was going to be a husband. A guardian. A man who had just been marked—not by vermillion, but by fate itself.