The night in Indraprastha unfolded like a celestial hymn, its rhythm carried by the gentle breeze that rustled through the palace gardens. Stars adorned the sky like a king's crown, their ethereal glow casting a soft radiance upon the earth. The night was sacred—not for war, counsel, or the burdens of Dharma—but for creation, love, and the quiet unfolding of destiny itself.

Earlier, Maharishi Atri and Maharishi Vashishtha had imparted their wisdom and blessings, sanctifying the path Draupadi and Yudhishthira were about to walk together. As per their counsel, the couple bathed in the holy waters, a ritual as old as time itself—one that purified the body, calmed the mind, and prepared the soul to welcome new life.

Draupadi stepped into their chamber, carrying the warmth of a thousand unspoken emotions. She was resplendent—not in the heavy jewels of a queen, but in the simplicity of a woman embracing the most profound moment of her life. Her dark locks flowed freely, her eyes shimmering with quiet understanding, trust, and anticipation that needed no words.

Yudhishthira stood by the window, his form outlined against the silver-lit sky. The breeze played with the edges of his garments, but his mind was still—serene, steady, and filled with nothing but the certainty of this moment. As she approached, he turned, his gaze meeting hers with an intimacy that transcended mere sight.

He did not speak immediately, for words would only dilute the depth of what flowed between them. Instead, he extended his hand—no demand, no hesitation, only an offering.

Draupadi placed her palm in his, their fingers interlacing as though they had always belonged there. "The stars are generous tonight," she murmured, her voice carrying the softness of the midnight breeze.

"They bear witness," Yudhishthira replied, his thumb tracing slow, reverent circles against her skin. "To a promise, to a prayer, to the life that awaits us."

She stepped closer, her presence grounding him, anchoring him in the moment—not as a king burdened by duty, not as a man who must uphold the weight of Dharma at every turn, but as a husband, a lover, the other half of her soul.

His hand rose to her face, his fingertips tracing the delicate contours as if memorizing what had always been his. "You are my certainty," he said. "In war, in peace, in moments like these—there is nothing I know more than you."



Draupadi's lips curved, her heart swelling with an emotion that had no name—perhaps it was love or something beyond it, something deeper, something eternal.

She reached for him then, her arms wrapping around him, not with urgency but with a quiet intensity, a surrender not of self but of soul. And as he held her, as their breaths intertwined, as the night wrapped them in its embrace, there was no doubt, no hesitation—only the silent poetry of their union, written in the language of touch, of devotion, of love unburdened by the weight of the world.

The golden lamps flickered, the silken drapes swayed, and the night whispered its blessings somewhere in the distance. And thus, beneath the watchful eyes of the cosmos, Draupadi and Yudhishthira became not just husband and wife but creators of a future that would soon take its first breath.

The Sacred Penance

The first light of dawn unfurled across Indraprastha, painting the palace corridors in hues of gold and vermillion. The city still slumbered, but within the sacred walls of the Puja Mandap, a divine stillness had settled—one that bore witness to devotion, to faith, to a moment beyond mortal concerns.

The five Pandavas and Draupadi stood before the altar, their forms bathed in the flickering glow of oil lamps. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and camphor, the hushed echoes of flowing water from a nearby fountain adding to the serenity.

Clad in pristine white, their heads bowed in reverence, they prepared for a day of absolute surrender—a day on which neither hunger nor thirst would command them, only devotion to the Supreme.

Yudhishthira was the first to break the silence, his voice steady yet suffused with quiet fervour. "Before we enter penance, let us invoke the Lord who is the beginning and the end, the eternal truth, the protector of Dharma."

He glanced at his brothers, at Draupadi, and then, together, their voices merged into one—the syllables rising in harmony, resonating through the chamber with an intensity that could shake the very heavens.

"Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya." The mantra reverberated against the sacred walls, each repetition carrying an invocation, a surrender, a whisper of the soul longing for divine grace.

"Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya." Standing between her husbands, Draupadi felt an indescribable energy course through her. The mantra was not just a chant but a bridge between the mortal and the divine, between yearning and fulfilment. Her eyes fluttered closed, her lips moving with the same fervour, and her hands folded in unwavering devotion.

"Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya." The world outside ceased to exist. Hunger, thirst, and fatigue were mortal burdens, and today, they were untouched by them.

As the rituals began, Yudhishthira led them through the sacred rites, offering clarified butter into the flames and whispering Vedic verses that sanctified the air. Arjuna poured water over the Shaligram, his fingers reverent as he traced the divine markings on the sacred stone. Despite his mighty frame, Bhima moved with quiet restraint, his devotion no less than that of a warrior on the battlefield.

Nakula and Sahadeva arranged the offerings, their hands moving with precision, their hearts steadfast in their vow. Draupadi, the queen, the wife, and the mother-to-be, sat in front of the sacred fire, her hands cupped in prayer. The flickering flames reflected in her kohl-lined eyes, and at that moment, she was not merely a woman of the world but a devotee surrendering herself to the cosmic will.

Hours passed.

The sun soared to its zenith, casting molten gold across the temple grounds, yet the Pandavas and Draupadi remained steadfast. Their lips were parched, their bodies weakened, but the fire in their souls burned unwaveringly.

They sought nothing but the blessings of Narayana, the one who resided in all things, the unseen force that had shaped their fates, wars, victories, and losses. As the day waned into dusk, their chants continued, unbroken, their minds submerged in the infinite depths of devotion. This was no mere ritual. This was an offering of self.

The Whispers of Fate

Yudhishthira and Yuyutsu mounted their chariot again, their expressions composed yet burdened with the weight of duty. The Sivi Kingdom awaited, and with it, an unforeseen twist of destiny. As the chariot set into motion, Yudhishthira glanced at Yuyutsu, who sat beside him, his face as unreadable as the vast horizon ahead. The rhythmic sound of hooves against the earth filled the silence between them, a silence that stretched longer than usual.

After a while, Yudhishthira turned towards his younger brother and asked, his voice laced with quiet concern, "Yuyutsu, I know you prefer solitude, but it has been two days; your silence is heavier than ever. Is something troubling you?"

Yuyutsu exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed ahead, yet his thoughts seemed miles away. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of something unspoken that clawed at the essence of his being, "Sometimes, Brata, life places you at a crossroads where every path is laden with thorns. And in such moments, the only guide is Dharma—harsh, unforgiving, and searing as Halahal itself."

Yudhishthira listened, his keen eyes studying his younger brother. A knowing smile graced his lips as he replied, "I do not know what dilemma you speak of, Anuj, but your words remind me of something Maharishi Atri once told us when we were but children at Shatashringa. He said—Dharma is not a simple path; it is a force that does not bind but liberates. It is vast, ever-changing, and layered beyond comprehension. And above all, Dharma should never be weighed against personal desires, but rather, measured by the greater good it serves."

Yuyutsu turned towards him, his expression unreadable, yet something flickered within his gaze—an unasked question, a silent war raging within. After a pause, he asked, his voice quieter yet laced with an intensity that could not be ignored, "Brata, tell me... is Raj dharma more important? Or Pati Dharma?"

Yudhishthira stilled. For a brief moment, he was not a king or a husband—he was simply a seeker of truth confronted with the paradox of righteousness. A soft breeze rustled through their garments as if the cosmos paused to hear his answer.

Then, with a measured breath, he spoke, his words carrying the weight of lifetimes of wisdom, "Dharma is imperfect, Anuj. No matter how righteously we walk upon it, we shall always falter, for we are but mortals. Yet it is better to follow one's Dharma imperfectly than attempt another's perfect. For me, Dharma itself is the highest path."

He continued, his voice unwavering yet touched with deep contemplation, "When Shri Krishna married sixteen hundred women, it was not out of desire—it was to save them from disgrace, to restore their dignity. That was Dharma.

When Mata Parvati took the form of Kali, she unleashed destruction upon the Asuras. Consumed by the sheer fury of divine wrath, she lost herself and her awareness in her rage—so much so that Mahadev himself lay on the ground to stop her. When she stepped upon him, realization dawned, and she halted.

Now, Anuj, if we speak of Patni Dharma, was it not against it for her to step upon her husband? Perhaps. But for the greater good, it was Dharma. She was saving the universe."

A moment of silence stretched between them before Yudhishthira's voice dropped lower, his tone laced with sorrow: "Dharma often wounds the ones we love. Bhagwan Rama hurt Mata Sita more than anyone could, yet he followed Dharma. He abandoned her, knowing the cruel tongues of the world would never let her live-in peace.

To the world, he forsook her—but she understood. He did not cast her away out of disdain but to protect her from the relentless whispers and a lifetime of suffering under suspicion. They could no longer be together in body, but in solitude, they remained bound.

Though he sat upon the throne as a king, he lived as a hermit each night—just like her."

A hushed stillness followed, profound and unwavering. Yuyutsu gazed at Yudhishthira, something indescribable flashing in his eyes. Then, he bowed his head slightly, his voice carrying reverence beyond mere words, "Brata, you have just embodied Shivatatvam—to remain unshaken amidst the storm, to uphold Dharma even when it bleeds the heart. Never lose this part of you... and may Mahadev always guide your path."

Yudhishthira smiled a quiet, knowing smile.

As their chariot neared Sivi Kingdom, they were met with an unexpected sight—the entire kingdom was adorned in grand splendour. Silken banners swayed in the breeze, the air thrummed excitedly, and golden garlands adorned the palace gates. Both brothers exchanged glances before Yuyutsu turned to the royal messenger who awaited them. "Is this grand display for Mahashivaratri?" Yuyutsu inquired, curiosity evident in his voice.

The messenger bowed, his expression unreadable as he replied, "No, Mahamahim. Today, within mere moments, the Swayamvar of our Rajkumari Devika shall commence. Raja Govasena has invited you to observe the ceremony from the royal chambers."

Yudhishthira stiffened.

His first instinct was to refuse—this was a matter of another kingdom's politics, and he had come for diplomacy, not to partake in courtly festivities. Yet before he could voice his refusal, Yuyutsu firmly touched his shoulder and spoke with quiet wisdom, "Let us go, Brata. This is an opportunity to meet the rulers of other kingdoms, understand their strengths and alliances, and perhaps... fortify our own."

Yudhishthira paused. Then, after a moment's thought, he nodded.

"Very well, Anuj. Let us attend the Swayamvar."

As they proceeded toward the grand court, hidden in the royal chambers, Raja Govasena observed their arrival with quiet anticipation. His keen gaze flickered toward his daughter, Rajkumari Devika, who stood draped in resplendent finery, yet her hands trembled at her sides. The king leaned towards her, his voice hushed yet laced with an unspoken command. "Now you know what must be done, Putri."

Unseen by her father, Devika's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Turning away, she strode toward the sanctum of Narayan's idol, her silken veil trailing behind her like the remnants of a dream about to shatter. Her fingers clasped together in fervent prayer, her voice a whisper, raw and filled with resolve, "I know what I must do... but please be with me, Narayana."

Somewhere in distant Dwaraka, amidst the swirling tides of fate, Shri Krishna smiled. His eyes twinkled with infinite knowing as he murmured to the cosmos itself— "Whatever you ask today, I shall give you."

A Union Foretold in the Scrolls of Destiny

The grand hall of the Sivi Kingdom shimmered in golden brilliance, the flickering flames of countless oil lamps casting an ethereal glow upon the assembled kings and warriors. The scent of burning incense mingled with the fragrance of fresh flowers while the steady hum of conversation wove a tense undercurrent beneath the ceremonial chants.

The Swayamvar had begun.

Seated upon an ornately carved dais, Yudhishthira observed the gathering before him, his gaze shifting from one familiar face to another. Across the vast chamber, kings and princes of Aryavarta had assembled—each adorned in regal splendour, eyeing the royal dais where Rajkumari Devika would soon make her choice.

Among them, he recognized Jayadratha, the ruler of Sindhu and the husband of his sister Duhsala, his dark eyes gleaming with confidence, his posture exuding arrogance. Not far from him stood Shishupala of Chedi, his perpetual scowl only deepened by the anticipation of competition. Bhagadatta of Pragjyotisha, a warrior of formidable reputation, sat with arms crossed, observing in silence. King Brihadratha of Magadha and Chandra Varma of Kamarupa were also present, each waiting for the moment when the Rajkumari would make her entrance.

But what caught Yudhishthira's eye most was the presence of his younger cousins—Vikarna, Abhaya, and Anuvindha, sent by Hastinapur. A silent unease crept into his heart, though he knew not why.

And then, Raja Govasena rose.

Stepping towards the sacred fire, the aged king offered prayers to Mahadev, his deep voice reverberating through the chamber as he called upon the gods to witness the union unfolding. With the ceremonial rites completed, he turned towards the ornate curtains that concealed the Rajkumari from view.

"Let the Rajkumari step forth." A hush fell upon the assembly. And then, she emerged.

Rajkumari Devika.

The moment she stepped into view, Yudhishthira felt something shift within him—something unspoken, something unsettling.

She was resplendent, yet there was an aura of quiet sorrow about her, a gravity that set her apart from the assembled maidens of Aryavarta. Her dark tresses cascaded in gentle waves, adorned with fragrant jasmine, while the rich crimson of her attire accentuated the dusky glow of her skin. Her eyes—deep, luminous, and unreadable—held a haunting beauty reminiscent of a divine.



Yudhishthira did not merely see her; he felt her. Something about her called to him, tugging at the depths of his soul like an unspoken plea woven into the fabric of time itself. It was neither desire nor mere admiration—something far deeper and more primal.

To save her? To protect her? To what? He did not know. The last time he felt something remotely akin to this was when he first saw Draupadi. And yet, why did his heart now echo the same call for Devika?

Beside him, Yuyutsu noticed. He had been silent, observing the subtle shifts in Yudhishthira's demeanour. And then, closing his eyes, he reached out beyond the confines of the physical world. "Narayana," he called, his voice resonating beyond the boundaries of time and space.

Shri Krishna smiled. Yuyutsu's voice trembled with concern. "Govasena is my devotee, and his daughter Devika is yours. But, Narayana, I do not wish to wound Draupadi further. I can change this fate now—I can ensure that Devika is wedded to a man who will cherish her without inflicting sorrow upon Panchali."

Krishna chuckled, his eyes twinkling with divine amusement. "Mahadev," he said softly, "You have walked among mortals for too long... You have begun to bind yourself to their joys and sorrows. But you already know the truth, do you not?"

Yuyutsu—who was more than a mere prince, Mahadev himself, bound in mortal flesh—remained silent. And Krishna continued, "Devika is the reincarnation of Dhumorna, the chief consort of Yama Deva. And you remember, do you not, Mahadev, when Brahma Deva placed his curse upon the celestial consorts of the five Pandavas' fathers? Would each have to share the embrace of another before they could return to their divine consorts?

That is why Draupadi embodies all of them. Whenever Draupadi is with Yudhishthira, she is embodied by Shyamala, another consort of Yama. With Arjuna, it is Indra – Shachi and I and Lakshmi. With Bhima are Vayu and Bharati. With Nakula and Sahadeva, it is the Ashwinis and their celestial consorts. However, each wife has been reborn, so they must wed those they are meant to return to."

A moment of silence passed. Then, Mahadev—as Yuyutsu—sighed, his mortal form weighed down by the gravity of truth. "I know this, Narayana," he admitted. "But we, the Gods, have altered fate before—when it was to protect those we hold dear. Draupadi is like my daughter, Narayana. Do you think I can stand by and watch her suffer?"

Krishna's gaze softened, "As Bholenath, Mahadev, your heart overflows with empathy, driving you to alleviate her suffering. Yet, I must remind you of the truth I shared with Niyati: Draupadi's destiny transcends the bounds of love and mortal ties. Born for a greater purpose, she must ultimately surrender all attachments, sorrows, and desires to seek me. Only then will she fulfil her sacred destiny, and as Vedavati, her soul will return to its divine essence, reunited with Lakshmi, as ordained by the cosmos."

The connection faded.

And Yuyutsu was back in the mortal realm, seated beside Yudhishthira, watching him. He placed a hand on his elder brother's arm and whispered, "Brata, if you are uncomfortable, we can retire to our quarters."

Still lost in contemplation, Yudhishthira exhaled deeply before shaking his head, "No... let us stay."

At that moment, Raja Govasena rose once more. His voice rang through the hall, commanding attention. "This Swayamvar is simple," he declared. "Putri Devika will choose her husband. Her wedded lord shall be the one upon whom she bestows this garland."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the assembly. Some kings smiled with confidence, while others exchanged wary glances. Jayadratha, ever arrogant, smirked with self-assured pride.

And then Rajkumari Devika moved. Her steps were slow, deliberate. She passed the assembled kings, her gaze betraying nothing. One by one, they expected her to halt before them, but she did not. And then, she ascended the dais. The entire hall gasped as she stood before Yudhishthira.

And with unwavering eyes, she raised the garland, "I take Maharaja Yudhishthira as my husband."

The silence was deafening. Yudhishthira froze. A storm raged in his heart. And somewhere in Dwaraka, Shri Krishna smiled once more.

A Union Bound by Dharma

The echoes of murmurs and hushed whispers still lingered in the grand hall, but one by one, the kings and princes took their leave, their hearts burning with indignation, disappointment, or resignation. However, not all departed in silence.

Jayadratha, the ruler of Sindhu, stood unmoved, his gaze sharp with challenge. His steps were slow yet deliberate as he advanced toward the dais. He let out a derisive chuckle before turning his piercing gaze upon Raja Govasena.

"Yudhishthira never participated in the Swayamvar," he declared, his voice laced with contempt. "Then by what right does your daughter garland him? Is this Dharma, Maharaja Yudhishthira?"

Silence fell like a shroud.

Yudhishthira, still seated, lifted his gaze—not in anger or indignation, but in the calm composure that defined him. His eyes flickered briefly towards Rajkumari Devika, whose expression remained unreadable, before he returned his attention to Jayadratha. "As per the customs of Aryavarta," Yudhishthira spoke evenly, "a Rajkumari has the right to choose her husband. The Swayamvar does not solely require arms competition—she will determine the outcome. She has exercised her right. Dharma has not been broken."

Jayadratha's jaw clenched. The answer was irrefutable, but his bruised and scorned pride did not permit him to yield. He stepped closer, his presence looming. But before he could take another step, a figure intercepted him.

Yuyutsu. The prince of Hastinapur, the son of Dritarashtra, stood between Jayadratha and Yudhishthira, his stance firm and expression cold. "If you seek redress, Sindhu Naresh," Yuyutsu stated, his voice edged with steel, "then do so through the means of warriors. Call for battle if your grievance demands bloodshed. But do not stand here, seething in the bitterness of your failure."

Jayadratha's eyes darkened with fury, but even he knew when to retreat and when to bide his time. He exhaled sharply, his lips curling in a sneer as he turned back toward Raja Govasena. "This is not over," he warned, his voice like that of a dagger unsheathed. And with that, he turned and left, his cloak billowing behind him, his pride barely intact.

A stillness settled in the hall once more. But this time, it was not the silence of unease—it was the silence of an impending storm.

Yudhishthira rose. His eyes, ordinarily gentle with compassion, now held an unfamiliar weight as he turned to Raja Govasena. "Explain."

His voice was quiet, but there was no softness—only the demand for truth. "I did not lie when I said a Rajkumari may choose whom she pleases," he continued. "But I did not expect this from you. If you desired this union, you could have asked me directly. Why resort to such a ploy?"

The ageing king lowered his head, his shoulders bearing the burden of his actions. "Jayadratha of Sindhu is my neighbour, as you well know," Govasena admitted, his voice weary. "But of late, he has encroached upon my lands. He seeks to weaken my rule—my subjects grow discontented, and shadows of betrayal stir within my court."

He exhaled deeply as though confessing the weight of a lifetime. "And now, he demands my daughter as his wife. That I cannot allow. Dwaraka and you, Maharaja Yudhishthira, are the only forces that can stand against him."

Yudhishthira regarded him carefully. Although the reasoning was sound, it did not sit well with him, and one question remained unanswered. "Then why not ask Shri Krishna to marry her?"

Raja Govasena's lips parted slightly in surprise, but then, he smiled—a small, tired smile with more meaning than words. "I did," he said.

Yudhishthira's brows furrowed. Krishna—who had taken sixteen thousand women under his protection, who had stood as the saviour of countless lives—had refused? The thought perplexed him. But he had no time to dwell upon it. His mind sharpened to the present. "Then you should have come to me openly," Yudhishthira said, his voice firm. "Why this deception?"

A soft voice interrupted before Raja Govasena could respond.

Devika.

She stepped forward, her dark, piercing eyes meeting Yudhishthira's unflinchingly. "If we had asked you outright, Maharaja," she said gently, "would you have taken me as your wife?"

A breath of silence passed. Yudhishthira did not answer because he knew the truth. No. Not because Devika was undeserving. Not because she was unworthy. But because of Draupadi.

Draupadi—who had sacrificed more than any woman should have to bear. Draupadi—who had walked the path of fire for them. Draupadi—who will carry his child. To take another wife at such a moment... he would not have agreed. His silence stretched too long.

Devika smiled faintly, tilting her head ever so slightly. "Your silence is the answer, Maharaja."

Yudhishthira's breath was heavy. He turned slightly, his mind grasping for a path out of this entanglement. "I have established the Amba Rule in Indraprastha," he stated. "Any woman, even those abandoned or widowed, may seek refuge and build a new life there. You can come to Indraprastha if you wish and start anew. But I cannot take you as my wife."

He turned to leave, his decision final. But Devika's voice called him back. "It is Pati Dharma." He halted mid-step, "You cannot go back on it, Maharaja. I have chosen you, as per Dharma. That means I am your wife, and you, my husband. You cannot abandon your Dharma." Yudhishthira turned sharply, his eyes flashing for the first time with something akin to anger.

But Devika did not flinch. "I am not forcing you, nor am I binding you, Maharaja," she said, her voice steady and resolute, "All I ask is this—let me walk beside you. Let me follow where fate has placed me. I will not demand love. I will not demand place or power. But let me come with you."

The truth is too simple yet too profound to deny. Yudhishthira stood motionless, gazing at her as if searching for something unseen. Then, at last, his eyes flickered to Yuyutsu.

Yuyutsu gave him a single nod. And the decision was made. "Prepare for the wedding."

Raja Govasena's face flooded with relief, his hands pressing together in reverence. "I shall call all the great kings for this momentous union—"

"No," Yudhishthira cut in. "We wed tomorrow. And the day after, we leave for Indraprastha." With that, he turned and walked away.

As Yuyutsu followed, he cast one last glance at Raja Govasena. His voice was quiet but carried an undeniable weight, "Karma returns, Raja Govasena. Your intent may have been just, but your means were flawed. Fate will balance the scales."

And with that, the night before, the union of Dharma and Destiny fell.

The Wedding of Dharma and Devotion

That night, sleeplessness engulfed Sivi. The air hung heavy with unsaid words, with thoughts burdened by what had transpired and what was yet to come. The torches flickered outside the royal palace, casting elongated shadows across the corridors, but the stillness was profound within the chamber of Rajkumari Devika.

Raja Govasena stepped forward, his gaze softening as he beheld his daughter. She sat by the open window, the moonlight caressing her face, her expression unreadable. He exhaled, his voice weighed with sorrow. "I always dreamt that your wedding would be celebrated across Aryavarta, Putri," he murmured. "That the greatest kings, the noblest sages, and the mightiest warriors would stand witness to your union. I wished for grandeur, songs to be composed in your honour, and the world to remember this day."

A dry, bitter chuckle escaped him, "And yet, tomorrow, you shall be wed in a ceremony devoid of festivity, hastened by necessity rather than joy. No grand procession, no royal feasts—only a quiet ritual before you are sent away. It is not what I had wished for you. I am sorry."

His voice faltered. The weight of his choices pressed upon him, "You are sacrificing much for this kingdom, Putri. And I do not know what awaits you in Indraprastha, in a life with Maharaja Yudhishthira."

For the first time, Devika turned to face him. She reached out, her delicate hands—more substantial than they seemed—clasping his own. "Pitashree," she spoke, her voice like a soft melody in the stillness of the night. "One thing is certain—I am marrying Dharma himself. Whatever my fate, it will never be unrighteous."

Her eyes held a quiet strength, an acceptance that seemed beyond her years. "As for my life in Indraprastha," she continued, "I have heard much of Maharani Draupadi. I know she is no ordinary queen, no ordinary woman. No matter how noble, any wife would feel the sting of her husband taking another. But for a woman who has walked through fire and endured trials no queen should endure... this will wound her deeply."

She inhaled slowly, "Yet, I do not seek to take her place. I do not wish to claim what she holds dear, nor do I desire to alter what is already hers. I will stand beside Maharaja Yudhishthira, nothing more, nothing less."

Raja Govasena sighed. Her words were wise, but a father's heart knows no reason when his daughter's future remains uncertain. "But, Putri," he hesitated, "what is a marriage without love?"

A gentle smile touched Devika's lips, a smile that spoke of understanding and acceptance. "Pitashree," she whispered, "in Aryavarta, love is a luxury, and not all marriages are granted. But the greater irony? Many of those unions lack even respect." Her fingers tightened slightly around his, "Yet I know this—Maharaja Yudhishthira will honour and respect me. And for a woman... that is enough. My consent will be asked—that alone is what I need."

Her father had no words left. He placed a trembling hand upon her head, a blessing, a prayer, a silent plea for her happiness. Then, without another word, he turned and left her chamber, leaving Devika alone with the night and her uncharted fate.

She turned to the idol of Narayana, her lips parting in a quiet prayer. "Hey, Narayana," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "A new journey awaits me. I do not know how to navigate this path or where it will lead, but I place my faith in you—be with me, O Lord."

The soft glow of the oil lamp flickered as if in response.

The next day, the sacred rites began. The morning sun bathed the temple courtyard in its golden embrace as sandalwood incense coiled in the air, mingling with the aroma of holy herbs burning in the yagna. The priests, clad in resplendent saffron robes, chanted the Vedic hymns, their voices weaving a bridge between the heavens and the earth.

Maharaja Yudhishthira stood solemnly before the sacred fire, clad in robes of white and gold, his demeanour reflecting his unwavering adherence to Dharma. Rajkumari Devika stood beside him, adorned in silk woven with the hues of the twilight sky, her hair scented with fresh jasmine.

As the rituals unfolded, she was reminded again that this was not a marriage of passion but of duty and Dharma. The sacred vows were exchanged—promises not of desire but of honour. The Mangal sutra was tied around her neck, symbolising their eternal bond. As they took the seven steps of the Saptapadi, each step echoed the principles upon which their union was founded.

When the final mantra was uttered, and the fire bore witness to their sacred bond, Devika was no longer Rajkumari of Sivi. She is the wife of Dharma.

That night, Yudhishthira entered the chamber of his new wife. The soft glow of lamps dimly lit the chamber. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, and the remnants of the wedding rituals still clung to the walls.

Devika stood by the window, bathed in moonlight. She did not turn when he entered. For a long moment, Yudhishthira merely looked at her. And then, he spoke—his voice measured and unyielding, "I am here to fulfil my Pati Dharma, Devika." The weight of his words pressed against the silence. "Tell me—do you wish to consummate this marriage?"

Devika turned slowly. She had always known that Yudhishthira was different from most men, but this...this willingness to grant her the choice was something she had never expected.

Something within her stirred, unfamiliar yet strangely comforting. She gazed at him, searching, feeling the unspoken weight in his eyes. And then, without thinking, she nodded.

Yudhishthira moved closer, but before anything else, his voice lowered. "Know this, Devika," he murmured. "Draupadi - She is not merely my wife, my Dharma itself. Without her, I would be nothing."

His words should have pained her. But they did not.

"I understand, Maharaja," she whispered.

A flicker of something—respect, admiration, perhaps even the beginning of devotion—passed between them. Yudhishthira lifted a hand, tracing the edge of her veil before letting it fall. And when the night embraced them, it was neither a union of passion nor longing. It was a union of acceptance.

At dawn, Raja Govasena stood before his daughter. Devika bowed before him, touching his feet, her forehead pressing against the cool marble floor. "May you be blessed, Putri," he whispered, his hands trembling as they rested upon her head.

He turned to Yudhishthira and Yuyutsu, his voice thick with emotion. "Take care of her, Maharaja." And then, as was tradition, he bestowed upon his daughter's new home all that he could offer—gold, silks, chariots adorned with precious stones, sacred scriptures, and the finest horses bred in Sivi. But the greatest gift he gave Yudhishthira was Devika herself.

And with that, the three figures mounted their chariots. As Indraprastha awaited its new queen, fate turned another page in the grand epic of Dharma.

A Tapestry of Fate

The dawn in Indraprastha was unlike any other. The air seemed to hum with an unspoken blessing, and Draupadi—queen, wife, and now soon-to-be mother—felt the weight of it settle deep within her heart. Nakula and Sahadeva had just confirmed it. She was carrying the next heir of the Kuru lineage.

She had shared the news first with those closest to her—Bhishma, Vidura, Aruni, Niyati, Kunti, and her husbands, Bhima and Arjuna. And now, as she sat amidst them, their faces radiant with joy, she felt a completeness she had never known.

Bhishma stepped forward, his eyes softer than she had ever seen them. "Putri," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "today, my heart knows true joy. You shall bring forth the next scion of the Kuru race, and I..." he smiled, "I shall ensure this child is trained in all that I know."

A mischievous glint flickered in Draupadi's eyes. "Pitamah, now you will be Prapitamah. Tell me, will you be his strict Guru or doting guardian?"

Bhishma chuckled, a rare sound, deep and warm. "I do not think I shall ever be angry with the children of my Pandavas."

"Cheating," Nakula muttered playfully, crossing his arms.

Bhishma arched a single stern eyebrow, a silent command that had silenced warriors and kings alike. Nakula instantly straightened, pressing his lips together, making the rest of them break into laughter.

Kunti and Aruni stepped forward, embracing Draupadi. "You shall have all my blessings, Putri," Kunti whispered against her hair. "May this child bring you every joy, and may his life be one of great purpose."

Draupadi, still in the warmth of their embrace, turned to Vidura. "Kakashree," she said, her voice carrying the depth of her respect, "if Arya Yudhishthira is Dharma itself, then you are its wisdom. Just as you have guided him, I ask that you guide this child as well."

Vidura's expression trembled with emotion. "Always, Putri," he said. "The feeling of being Pitamah... I am only now learning its depth. I will cherish this child as my own."

Bhima laughed. "Soon enough, our child will take our place in your heart."

Arjuna smirked. "At least someone will finally take his advice without questioning it."

Laughter rippled through the gathering.

Just then, the doors swung open. A gust of wind heralded the arrival of Vasusena, who had freshly returned from Dwaraka. He strode in, his presence powerful, but today, his eyes held something brighter. Behind him walked Stambhinī and Krodhini, their faces glowing with an untold secret.

Draupadi turned to him, her face alight with joy. "Jyeshta! You have returned!"

Vasusena smiled and walked towards her, his voice gentle. "I have returned, and I bring tidings of my own." He looked around, meeting the eyes of those he called family. "But first," he said, "Draupadi, know I am always with you... and this child of yours."

Draupadi felt her throat tighten with emotion.

"And now," Vasusena continued, his voice carrying through the hall, "I have something to share." He took a deep breath and then turned to Stambhinī and Krodhini. "They, too, are with child."

A stunned silence filled the air. And then—Draupadi let out a joyous squeal, rushing forward to embrace them. "This is wonderful!" she cried.

Kunti's eyes brimmed with tears, and she was overwhelmed with happiness as she gazed at all three women—her daughters in every sense. Bhishma, ever composed, took a step toward Vasusena, embracing him longer than he had ever done before, his silent pride evident in his gesture.

Bhima threw an arm around his elder brother. "Jyeshta, you have outdone yourself," he declared. "Now, see how we pamper these children. Just wait till they arrive!"

Arjuna chuckled, "We shall ensure they grow to be mischievous warriors, just like their fathers."

Aruni, shaking his head, chuckled. "A moment ago, you all looked rather envious. And now, hearing that you will be Kakashree, you are dancing joyfully?"

Laughter echoed through the palace halls.

Draupadi, wiping away her tears of happiness, sighed. "Now, I only await Arya Yudhishthira and Brata Yuyutsu's return. They will be overjoyed."

Even as she spoke, a royal messenger hurried into the chamber. "Maharani," he said, bowing low, "Maharaja Yudhishthira and Mahamahim Yuyutsu have arrived at the gates of Indraprastha, along with great riches from Sivi."

A radiant smile bloomed on Draupadi's lips. She wasted no time. Gathering the aarti thali, she walked towards the gates, her heart drumming in anticipation. As the procession entered, she saw him—Yudhishthira, striding towards her.

But something felt amiss. His eyes—there was no visible joy in them. Still, when they met hers, his lips curved into a soft, weary smile. And for that moment, nothing else mattered.

She stepped forward, not allowing him a single breath before she declared, "Arya, you are going to be a father!"

Yudhishthira halted, his breath catching.

Draupadi continued, her excitement spilling forth. "Not just a father. A Kakashree, too! Krodhini and Stambhinī Bhagini are also expecting!"

The gathered family stood beside her—Bhishma, Vidura, Aruni, Niyati, Vasusena's wives, and Kunti—smiling and waiting for his response.

Yuyutsu, who had dismounted beside him, took a step forward. As the same news was shared with him, he turned to Draupadi, his voice steady with promise, "I am always with you, Draupadi."

But then, his eyes drifted towards Niyati. A sorrowful expression shadowed her face. At that moment, a soft sound—a gentle chime of anklets—rose in the air.

All turned.

A woman was walking towards them, her form ethereal, her beauty divine. She walked with quiet grace, each step measured until she stood beside Yudhishthira.

Silence engulfed the palace courtyard. Bhishma, wise and knowing, closed his eyes. He understood what had transpired in Sivi.

Draupadi's breath is stilled.

And then Yudhishthira spoke the words that would change everything in a slow, measured, and unshaken voice, "She is Rajkumari of Sivi—Devika. My wife."