The soft glow of dawn barely touched the horizon, yet the air within Indraprastha's palace was thick with an ethereal presence. In the quiet chambers of the queen, a scene unfolded that would be etched in memory for eternity.

Draupadi sat upright, her dark curls cascading over her shoulders, framing the sheer wonder in her eyes. Within her delicate grasp lay Prativindhya—barely a day old yet carrying the weight of the cosmos in his being. His tiny hands clenched and unclenched as if grasping the very elements that dwelled within him. The Panchabhootas had converged in him, and those who beheld him could not help but be awestruck.

Beside her, Yudhishthira leaned in, his fingers trailing lightly over his son's forehead. His voice was unsteady, burdened with a depth of emotion that even he, the steadfast son of Dharma, struggled to contain.

"Putr," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "Prativindhya... your name itself echoes the strength you will carry. The world may see a prince, but I see the heartbeat of this land."

Draupadi turned to him, her gaze filled with something more profound than mere pride. "You always feared, Arya, that duty would leave you little time to know your child. But look at him—he already knows you. The moment you hold him, he does not cry."

Yudhishthira smiled a rare, unguarded smile, "Perhaps he already understands his father's silence."

Their moment of reverence was interrupted by a gentle knock. As the doors parted, Bhishma strode in, his resplendent white beard framing his solemn yet softened features. Behind him, the Kuru family entered—the mighty Pandavas, Kunti, Vidura, and others whose lives were now intertwined with this child's fate.

Yudhishthira stood and approached Bhishma with all the grace of an elder son. Without hesitation, he placed the newborn in his grandsire's arms. The room held its breath.

Bhishma cradled the child with a tenderness that defied his warrior's spirit. As ancient as time, his gaze bore into the infant's tiny, peaceful face. Then, as though unveiling a decree long inscribed in fate, he spoke.

"Maharishi Atri and Maharishi Vashishtha will be visiting us soon," he announced, his voice resonating with the weight of tradition. "For this child is no ordinary soul. He is destined to sit upon the throne of Indraprastha after you, Yudhishthira."

A ripple passed through the gathered kin. Happiness shimmered in their eyes, yet amidst that joy, Krodhini and Stambhinī exchanged a glance—one laden with unspoken thoughts. Their hearts churned with questions neither dared voice aloud. And what of our children? Krodhini clenched her fists at her sides. Arya Vasusena was cursed and renounced the throne, so they say Yudhishthira shall rule instead. But was he not cursed as well? Why, then, must his children inherit? Are we not all worthy? Must we be denied again? Will our sons have to prove their merit while others inherit without question?

Yet before they could dwell further in the shadows of doubt, Draupadi's voice cut through the chamber like a divine decree. "Pitamah," she said, stepping forward, her head held high, "if you do not mind, let Jyeshta Vasusena's children continue the legacy of Indraprastha. He is the one who built everything for his brothers and stood like a guardian in the face of fate, yet he was never granted the right to rule. But his children can. After all, in our lineage, there is no rule that only the eldest son must rule."

A stunned silence followed. Bhishma, who had seen generations rise and fall, found himself momentarily without words. The Kuru family, too, absorbed the weight of her proclamation. Kunti's eyes welled with tears—tears of pride and relief. Vasusena, standing a little apart, merely smiled, his expression unreadable yet touched by something profound.

Krodhini and Stambhinī were caught between guilt and gratitude, and their gazes lowered. They had doubted where they should have trusted.

But before settling the matter, Niyati's calm yet authoritative voice cut through. "Let us not decide who will rule the kingdom," she said. Her presence commanded the room, and all eyes turned to her. "Let us not even discuss it before the children understand what it means to lead. Have we learned nothing from Maharaja Dritarashtra and Yuvraj Suyodhana? From how craving the throne can blind a man's soul?"

Her gaze swept over them, her words carrying the weight of truth. "A throne does not make a king. It is a king who gives the throne its worth. And when greed sits upon it, a Kingdom crumbles. Let the sons of Pandavas first learn to be men. To be human. To walk without the weight of power dictating their steps. And only then shall fate decide their place."

Vidura, ever the voice of wisdom, nodded. "True, Putri. Indraprastha is still young. Let them grow. Let them carve their destinies."

Just then, a sharp cry rang through the halls. All heads turned as Krodhini and Stambhinī clutched their stomachs. It was time. The labour chambers erupted into urgency. Kunti and Devika stepped forward without hesitation, guiding the two queens into the birthing chambers. The midwives moved swiftly, their hands steady despite the cries of agony that now filled the air.

Outside, the men paced, tense. Vasusena clenched his fists. Arjuna stared at the chamber doors, willing them to open with news. Then, after what felt like an eternity, the wails of new-born's filled the air. The midwives emerged, each cradling a tiny prince. The Kuru family surged forward. Bhishma took one in his arms while Vasusena reached for the other. The weight of their legacy rested in their palms.

Bhima was the first to break the tension. "I will be his favourite Kakashree," he declared, grinning. "I will teach him the art of the mace." Arjuna scoffed. "And I will teach him the bow. Don't think you can claim him so easily, Brata Bhima." Vasusena chuckled at their antics, warmth filling his gaze as he looked upon his brothers, once more united in joy.

Inside, Krodhini and Stambhinī lay exhausted but victorious. Yet, a question burned in their minds. As soon as Vasusena entered, Krodhini's voice wavered. "Why was there no Akashavani for our sons?" she asked. "Why was it different with Prativindhya? Is it because... because Draupadi was born of fire, and we are—"

Vasusena sighed, shaking his head. He knelt beside them, his voice gentle but firm. "Krodhini, do not chase after illusions. My brothers' bond with Draupadi differs from what we three share. Do not let that divide you. And tell me, does it truly matter if our sons were not born with prophecies? Can we not shape them into greatness ourselves?"

Stambhinī, troubled, whispered, "But great men are always born with power. Look at Pitamah, at Shri Krishna, at all of you Pandavas. If divinity does not touch them, were they never meant to be great?"

Vasusena's gaze turned thoughtful, his voice steady yet filled with conviction, "Dhruva, the son of King Uttānapāda, was born an ordinary prince. Yet his unwavering devotion to Narayana made him immortal, placing him among the stars. Though not born divine, our ancestor Bharata ruled Bharatvarsha with unmatched wisdom and strength. Some are born great, like Shri Krishna and Niyati. Some achieve greatness, like Bhagawan Rama, whose valour, righteousness, and perseverance carved his name into eternity. Some have greatness thrust upon them, like Vibhishana, who did not seek power but was given Lanka's throne for standing with Dharma.

No prophecy makes a man great, Krodhini, nor the circumstances of his birth. Our sons do not need divine declarations to shape their destiny. They will carve it themselves."

As he stood to leave, he turned back to them, his expression unreadable. But his following words would linger in their hearts forever. "I have seen what insecurity and jealousy do to a family. I will not let them take root in mine. Our choices make us who we are. Choose wisely." And with that, he walked away, leaving behind not just words but a path to be walked.

The Prophecy, The Warriors, and The Path of Dharma

The air in Indraprastha's grand hall was thick with reverence and anticipation as Maharishi Atri, accompanied by Mata Anasuya, and Maharishi Vashishtha, with Mata Arundhati, stepped into the palace. Their presence alone commanded the respect of all assembled—Pandavas, elders of the Kuru family, and the many gathered nobles. Their wisdom stretched beyond the confines of time, and their very footsteps carried the weight of celestial knowledge.

As they entered, their eyes instinctively sought Niyati and Yuyutsu. Atri's gaze held an unspoken acknowledgement, a gentle bow following—a sign of even a Maharishi's reverence for divinity hidden in mortal form. Vashishtha, too, offered the same. The two figures of wisdom then took their seats, their expressions composed yet knowing.

Before them, the three new-borns were placed—tiny, yet carrying the weight of legacies untold. Prativindhya, son of Draupadi and Yudhishthira, rested with an ethereal serenity, while the two sons of Vasusena, though just a day old, bore an unexplainable aura of strength.

Maharishi Atri's gaze lingered upon Prativindhya, the fire of divine foresight flickering in his eyes. "This child is destined for greatness," he declared, his voice a calm river carrying truths from beyond the veil of time. "The very essence of the Panchabhootas—earth, water, fire, air, and space—resides within him. But power is nothing without discipline. He must be trained by one who controls these elements."

Bhishma, ever the guardian of dharma, leaned forward. "Maharishi, does this mean he must be sent to Mahadev for tutelage?"

Atri shook his head, but Vashishtha answered, his voice unwavering. "There is no need for that, Devavrata. The one who shall teach him already walks amongst us."

The hall grew still as Vashishtha turned towards Yuyutsu, "Mahadev himself imparted the knowledge of the elements to Yuyutsu. He alone is capable of guiding Prativindhya."

Nakula's eyes widened in disbelief, "Brata, you never shared this with us!" His lips curled into a playful pout, an expression rarely seen on the disciplined warrior.

Yuyutsu's lips quirked into an amused smirk, "You never asked."

But among all, it was Bhishma whose heart swelled with pride. The child once overlooked, now honoured by sages, carrying the wisdom of Mahadev himself—Bhishma had always seen Yuyutsu's worth, and today, the world did too.

Atri, however, was not done. His gaze darkened, his voice carrying the weight of an inescapable truth. "However,"

The change in his tone made Draupadi's heart tighten. A mother senses danger before it even manifests. "Tell me, Maharishi. Is there an ill omen upon my son?"

Atri hesitated momentarily before his eyes flickered toward Niyati, seeking permission to unveil what fate had woven. Niyati gave the slightest nod.

"Putri," Atri said solemnly, "your son will uphold dharma when his father cannot. He will be the pillar in its darkest hours, but his death... his death is already written."

Gasps rippled through the assembly. Yudhishthira's breath hitched as his hands instinctively clenched into fists. "What do you mean, Gurudeva?" His voice, though calm, carried an undertone of pleading.

Vashishtha answered, his words carved in destiny itself. "His death will mark the foundation of a kingdom that you will rule, Yudhishthira."

A hollow silence followed, then a whisper of defiance. "No."

Yudhishthira shook his head. "No, Maharishi. I cannot—will not—rule upon the death of my child. If he is to be king, then I shall give him the throne myself. Not the other way around."

Atri's gaze softened, "Putra, that is his destiny. He will help you build a kingdom where dharma reigns supreme. He will stand for his mother—more than anyone ever has, even more than the Pandavas themselves. And yet, for the sake of that very dharma, he will meet his end."

Draupadi's voice trembled, desperation clinging to her words. "Is there nothing I can do to change this fate?"

Before the sages could respond, Yuyutsu's voice rang out, firm yet serene. "Draupadi, is anyone in this world exempt from death?" His words silenced all. "Every living being walks toward their end from the moment they take their first breath. Life and death are but two sides of the same path. What matters is not how long we walk, but what footprints we leave behind."

He turned towards her fully, his golden eyes glimmering with wisdom beyond his years. "Rather than fear his death, ask yourself—how will he live? What will he do for Dharma while he is here? If his time is limited, should we not make the best of it? And when he departs, he will not vanish into nothingness. His soul will merge with the Paramatma or embark upon another journey. You know this, for you, too, have walked the cycles of birth and rebirth." Draupadi's breath was unsteady, but she nodded. And beside her, Yudhishthira bowed his head in acceptance.

Atri then turned to Krodhini's child, a knowing look in his eyes. "This child shall be known as Vrishasena."

Krodhini's lips trembled with joy.

"He will be known for his generosity, devotion to Brahmins, truthfulness, and adherence to vows. Even towards his enemies, he shall show compassion. A Maharathi, like his father."

Vasusena gently placed his other son before the sage. Stambhinī, now seated beside him, watched with anticipation.

Atri took the child in his arms, the weight of destiny resting upon the new-born's small form. "He shall be called Banasena. His archery will be unmatched—his arrows shall never run out; his hands never waver. He will be an army in himself." A pause. "However, just as an arrow once loosed can never return, he too is bound by fate. War shall call him, and he will not escape its grasp."

A solemn hush fell upon the gathering.

Vashishtha then spoke. "Devavrata shall be the Guru of Vrishasena and Banasena. Atri and I shall impart the knowledge of the Vedas to them. As for Prativindhya, he shall learn under both Yuyutsu and us."

And then, Vashishtha's eyes turned to Bhima. "Yuvraj Bhimasena," he said, his voice a decree from the heavens, "before Putri Draupadi unites with you to bear your child, you must perform a thousand Yagnas for Chandra deva."

Bhima frowned, confused but ever respectful. "Maharishi, why is this necessary?"

Atri answered, his voice gentle yet firm. "Chandra Deva is the source of Soma, the nectar of vitality. Your child will carry immense strength within him, but without Soma's grace, that strength will burn through him rather than serve him. The thousand Yagnas are not mere rituals, but a purification—an offering to him, so that he may bestow his blessing upon the child to come."

Bhima turned to Draupadi, who gave him a slight, reassuring nod. With newfound clarity, Bhima bowed his head. "If this is the path to ensuring our child's strength is tempered with wisdom, then I shall undertake it, Maharishi."

Dilemma and the Path Ahead

The sacred fires had roared for over two and a half years. Guided by the wisdom of Maharishi Vashishtha, Bhima had undertaken a thousand yajnas—his hands ceaselessly feeding the flames, his chants merging with the cosmos, his presence like that of an unshakable mountain.

As the sacrificial fires burned, life blossomed anew within Indraprastha. Devika bore Yudhishthira a son—Yaudheya, who is incarnate of Chitragupta and destined for the path of dharma. Meanwhile, Vasusena's consort, Krodhini, gifted the world twin sons. The first is Sushena—his name is a proclamation of his warrior's prowess. The second, Bhanusena, gave his name a reverence to Suryadev, the father who bestowed Vasusena his celestial armour and golden glow.

The city thrived, and the Kuru lineage flourished. But fate was an ever-turning wheel, and the call of dharma never rested.

A desperate voice rang through Indraprastha one fateful afternoon, shaking its foundation. Dishevelled and trembling with rage, a brahmana stormed through the palace gates, his voice raw with anguish, "O sons of Pandu! Have you abandoned the throne to jackals? Mean and cruel thieves have robbed me of my cattle—my only wealth! The sacrificial offerings of a peaceful brahmana are now in the clutches of wretched crows! My cries shatter the skies, yet you stand idle? Where is the dharma you claim to uphold? Take up your arms before righteousness crumbles to dust!"

The royal court stirred in alarm, but the words burned brightest in the ears of one man—Arjuna.

The urgency of the call had Arjuna reaching for his bow—only to realize the cruel hand fate had played upon him. His bow, his Kindhura, rested in Krishnaa's chamber, where he had spent the previous night with his beloved. But now, Yudhishthira lay there with Krishnaa and Prativindhya.

Arjuna's breath caught in his throat.

He knew the rule. No brother was to intrude upon another's time with Krishnaa. To do so would mean exile—a vow of twelve years in the wilderness. Yet, to turn away from the brahmana's plea would be a failure of duty. His mind waged a war fiercer than any battlefield.

His fingers curled into fists. "If I ignore this plea, dharma will be stained, and my Brata Yudhishthira's name—our family's honour—will be tainted forever. But if I enter that chamber, I must leave my Krishnaa for twelve long years..."

His heart wrenched at the thought. But dharma was not a choice; it was an obligation. And Arjuna was bound to it, come what may.

Steeling his resolve, Arjuna inhaled deeply. He stepped forward and, with utmost reverence, called out to Yudhishthira. "Brata! Permit me to enter!"

The rustling of silk was heard. Yudhishthira, who had been resting with Draupadi and playing with Prativindhya, sat up in shock. Draupadi herself stiffened as the heavy doors creaked open.

Arjuna stood, his expression unwavering, his gaze fixed only upon his elder brother. "Dharma has called, Brata," Arjuna declared, his voice steady yet heavy with fate.

Without hesitation, he retrieved his Kindhura and rushed to the palace gates, the brahmana's cries urging him forward. The thieves had barely made it beyond the borders when the tempest that was Arjuna descended upon them. Clad in armour, his chariot thundering across the plains, he unleashed a barrage of arrows that streaked through the sky like lightning.

Cries of pain and fear erupted as the robbers fell, their bodies torn asunder by his unerring aim. The stolen cattle, bewildered but unharmed, bellowed as their captors fled.

When it was over, Arjuna turned to the Brahmana and placed a reassuring hand upon his shoulder. "Your wealth is restored. Dharma prevails."

The brahmana fell at his feet, overwhelmed by gratitude. The people of Indraprastha sang his praises, but Arjuna did not bask in their adulation. His heart was heavy with the truth that awaited him upon his return.

Back at the palace, Arjuna stood before Yudhishthira, his expression solemn. "Suyodhana sent those thieves. We handled them. However, Brata, permit me to uphold our vow," he said, his voice firm. "I have broken the rule. Though it was in the name of dharma, I must atone. I must leave."

Gasps filled the court.

Yudhishthira's face paled. "No, Arjuna... You did not wrong me. I understand why you entered. Dharma is not a rigid chain but a living force that bends for righteousness."

But Arjuna shook his head. "Dharma must not be observed through convenience, Brata. I will not waver from the truth. My path is clear."

As the weight of his words sank in, a soft yet firm voice cut through the chamber.

"Partha."

The air itself seemed to pause. It was Niyati. And it was not without reason when she called Arjuna by that name. She stepped forward, her gaze locking onto his. "You seek to uphold dharma, but have you truly understood it?"

Arjuna remained silent.

She continued, her voice a river—calm yet assertive. "Yes, you entered the chamber. But you sought permission. You were called by duty. And, as Brata Bhima once said before laying this rule, exceptions exist in times of urgency. You have not violated dharma."

Arjuna clenched his jaw, about to argue, but Niyati raised a hand, silencing him, "The Vedas themselves state that one day and night can equal a full year under certain and strict practices. Accept this truth if the scriptures hold authority: you need not wander for twelve years. Instead, observe a vow of Brahmacharya for 144 days—twelve years in its purest essence."

The court murmured in astonishment.

Arjuna's stormy eyes met hers. "You believe this to be righteous?"

"I do," she said unwaveringly. "And so, do the Vedas. Dharma, like a river, flows. Do not bind yourself in chains of your own making."

Silence fell. Then, at last, Arjuna exhaled, bowing his head. "I will do as you guide."

A sigh of relief rippled through the court. Yudhishthira's eyes softened, Draupadi's lips trembled, and the elders of the Kuru house exchanged approving nods. With Yudhishthira's blessing, Arjuna was consecrated in the rites of Brahmacharya. The next day, he left Indraprastha—not for twelve years, but for 144 days of ascetic penance.

As the mighty-armed scion of the Kuru lineage set forth, the air seemed to hum with the weight of his departure. Arjuna did not walk alone—he was followed by great-souled brahmanas, their foreheads marked with the sacred tilak, their voices carrying the echoes of the eternal Vedas. These were men of wisdom, scholars of the Vedangas, seers who had glimpsed the Supreme within the depths of their contemplation.

Alongside them came the bards—keepers of ancient lore—whose words wove the tapestry of forgotten legends, their voices rising like a river in space. There were also ascetics, clad in bark and deerskin garments, their eyes alight with the glow of renunciation. Forest-dwelling sages, men who had turned away from the world's illusions, emerged from their hermitages to walk beside him. And mingling amongst them were storytellers whose tongues spun the divine narratives of yore, their words cascading like celestial music.

One day, as Arjuna dwelled among these men of wisdom, the sacred fires blazed brightly in their midst. The Brahmanas, unwavering in their vows, gathered to perform agnihotras (performing an exchange in the presence of fire), their chants rising into the heavens, mingling with the crackling flames. Offerings of fragrant flowers were strewn upon both banks of the river, their petals floating like tiny boats of devotion upon the gentle waters. The Ganga, that eternal river of sanctity, shimmered with newfound beauty as if consecrated anew by their rituals.

Encircled by such exalted company, Arjuna moved as Vasava (Like Indra), surrounded by the celestial Maruts. His journey led him through forests pulsed with life, their emerald canopies sheltering him in a cool embrace. He beheld lakes, their waters gleaming like liquid sapphires beneath the golden sun. Rivers rushed to meet the seas, their courses carving through the land like the veins of the earth. Kingdoms rose and fell before his eyes—some prosperous, their people joyous in their dharma, others ravaged by the merciless wheel of fate.

At last, his path brought him to the sacred source of the Ganga, where the divine river whispered its ageless song. Here, on the southern banks of the hallowed Mansarovar, Arjuna stood at the threshold of something far more significant than mere pilgrimage—he stood upon the precipice of self-discovery, his heart poised between duty and destiny.

The Moon's Blessing

The final night of the grand yagna unfolded under a sky bathed in silver radiance as if the heavens had bent low to witness the culmination of devotion. The sacred fires blazed, their tongues of gold licking at the darkness, while the fragrance of ghee and sanctified offerings lingered in the air. A divine hush spread over the assembly, an unearthly presence stirring the very fabric of existence.

And then, he appeared.

Chandra Deva, the luminous deity of the moon, descended upon the sacred grounds in a celestial glow that rivalled the embers of the yajna itself. His serene yet unfathomable gaze settled upon the gathered ones, and his voice, like the gentle rippling of moonlit waves, filled the space.

"I am pleased," he proclaimed, his words carrying the weight of divine sanction. "The yajna you have performed in my name is worthy of my blessing. And so, I bestow upon you a son."

Draupadi's breath hitched. Bhima's brows furrowed in astonishment. Though steeped in faith, the assembly could not help but marvel at the sheer magnitude of the moment.

Chandra Deva turned his radiant gaze toward Bhima. "He shall carry your strength, Vrikodara. A warrior formidable beyond reckoning, adept in the art of mace and bow, unlike any before him. He shall embody peace and divine wisdom—a warrior of unshakable might and a harbinger of harmony."

Then, he looked at Draupadi, his expression softening into something almost paternal. "Putri," he murmured, "your son shall bear your eternal glow, his presence a beacon amidst shadows. He shall possess the power to read thoughts, to bend and reflect light itself—rendering him unseen at will or appearing where he is not. Deception shall be his shield in war. His enemies will falter before him, their minds clouded, their judgments crumbling beneath his will. No illusion shall ensnare him, for he shall pierce through the veils of deceit, sensing lies, betrayals, and strategies before they unfold. And the waters, the gentle yet unfathomable currents—they shall bend to his command."

Bhima and Draupadi stood in silent wonder, absorbing the enormity of the gift bestowed upon them. But Draupadi, ever the seeker of truth, stepped forward, her voice unwavering despite her awe. "Why, O lord of the moon, may I not carry my son within my womb?"

Chandra Deva smiled, his radiance seeming to soften. "Could Kunti have borne Bhima in her womb?" he asked gently. "No, for the power of Vayu was too great to be contained. So, it is with your son, for he carries not only Bhima's essence but mine. He shall manifest by divine will. Unite tonight, and by dawn, the child shall be here."

As the night stretched its velvet embrace over the earth, Bhima and Draupadi found solace in each other's arms, a love woven of passion and destiny. The weight of war, duty, kingdom, and lineage faded in that sacred moment of unity. Their whispers melted into the night, their longing unspoken yet understood in every touch.

By the time the first light of dawn kissed the horizon, the palace stirred with murmurs of something extraordinary. And there, at the feet of Narayana in the puja mandir, a child lay—a vision of ethereal beauty, his skin glowing like the moon at its fullest.

Draupadi, overcome with reverence, lifted the infant into her arms, cradling the divine gift against her heart. Bhima stood beside her, his voice thick with emotion as he recounted Chandra Deva's words, revealing the child's blessings: strength and wisdom, the power of illusion and the foresight of a seer, mastery over water, and an unshakable will. This was their son. This was Sutasoma.

The news spread like wildfire, reaching the ears of the Kuru elders, who rejoiced at the continuation of their lineage. Amidst the celebrations, Nakula, ever the charmer, strode toward the infant, peering at him with exaggerated scrutiny. "How is he more handsome than me?" he demanded with mock indignation.

A resounding smack landed on the back of his head.

"You're jealous of a one-day-old child?" Vasusena chastised, shaking his head. "And that too, your son?"

Nakula rubbed the back of his head but grinned mischievously. "So, what, Jyeshta? Look at him! He outshines even me!"

Warm and joyous laughter rang through the halls. Bhima's heart swelled with pride, so he lifted his son and gently placed him in Yudhishthira's arms. "Our son, Brata."

Yudhishthira, ever composed, felt his control slip. His eyes brimmed with unshed tears as he gazed at the child. "If only Arjuna were here..." he murmured, his voice a longing whisper.

Seeing the moment with quiet satisfaction, Bhishma felt a rare warmth fill his ancient heart. The Pandava lineage, a line forged in dharma, was growing. Beside him stood Bhanu, the valiant son of Satyabhama, watching the infant with curious eyes.

To everyone's surprise, the new born reached out toward him. Bhima chuckled. "Looks like he already favours Putra Bhanu."

Bhishma turned to Bhanu and Satyaki. "Your education is complete," he declared. "You may return home."

Joy burst across their faces, but as Bhanu turned to leave, a tiny hand gripped his tunic. Prativindhya, eyes wide with childish innocence, clung to him. "Don't go, Brata," he pleaded. Bhanu laughed, scooping both Prativindhya and Sutasoma into his arms. "I will return soon," he promised, pressing kisses to their cheeks before heading off to pack for Dwaraka.

Even as the air buzzed with celebration, a letter arrived from Kashi. Vasusena, expecting news from Rani Dhanumati about their newborn son Kshatradharman, opened it eagerly—only for his expression to freeze in surprise.

It was an invitation.

From King Subahu.

For the Swayamvar of his last daughter, Kali, also known as Valandhara,

Silence descended as all eyes turned toward Vasusena. Krodhini, ever the firebrand, crossed her arms. "What kind of Swayamvar is this?" she demanded.

Vasusena exhaled. "Mace fighting."

A ripple of realization spread through the gathering. Only two men could rightfully compete—Bhima and Vasusena himself.

Bhishma's gaze turned contemplative. "Half of Kashi is already under Indraprastha's rule," he mused. "If we gain the other half, it would be an advantage. But I will not push either of you. Go only if you deem it wise."

Later that night, Draupadi stood in her chambers, cradling Sutasoma, when she felt strong arms encircle her from behind. "I won't go," Bhima murmured against her hair. "Do not worry."

Draupadi turned, facing him with quiet resolve. "You must."

Bhima frowned. "Why?"

"As a wife," she admitted, "I am selfish. I want you for myself. But as a queen, I must think beyond my heart." She sighed. "That part of Kashi is unstable. Even Yuvraj Suyodhana holds influence there. If we claim it, and Rani Dhanumati is already wed to Dhrishtadyumna, then marrying the third princess will secure our hold. It is a strategic move."

Bhima studied her, admiration flickering in his eyes. "I never thought you would think this way, Panchali. I imagined you would be hurt."

Draupadi smiled. "Oh, I will be. And then you will come and pamper me." She arched a brow. "Won't you?"

Bhima chuckled. "You know I love you. No one else." He kissed her forehead, then strode toward Yudhishthira.

"I will go for the Swayamvar," he declared.

The soft rustling of silk echoed through the dimly lit chamber as Kunti entered, her presence commanding yet filled with maternal warmth. The flickering oil lamps cast long shadows upon the stone walls, their golden glow barely reaching the corners of the vast room.

Draupadi stood near the intricately carved window, Sutasoma nestled against her chest, his tiny fingers curling in sleep. The moonlight kissed her features, highlighting the quiet turmoil behind her composed demeanour.

Kunti's gaze lingered on her daughter-in-law, a woman who had endured the trials of fate with unwavering grace. She exhaled deeply before speaking, her voice laced with tenderness and sorrow. "Last time I saw your pain," she murmured, stepping closer. "Then why, Putri? Why are you sending Bhima?"

Draupadi's lips parted slightly, her fingers tightening around the soft fabric of her son's swaddle. But then, a faint smile graced her lips—a smile laced with understanding, with an acceptance that came not from resignation but from wisdom earned through fire and trial.

"I already know he wants to go, Mata," she replied, turning to meet Kunti's searching eyes. "Or else he would not have come to tell me he doesn't wish to go."

Kunti's breath caught for a moment. How well she knew the hearts of her sons. For all his strength, Bhima was a man ruled by emotions, and his love for Draupadi was more profound than the oceans that cradled the earth. He would not leave her unless duty compelled him, and he sought her permission only to soothe the guilt in his own heart.

Draupadi's voice was steady, yet beneath it lay an ocean of emotions restrained by her crown. "Your sons wish to rule Aryavarta, Mata. And for that, alliances such as these are not mere desires but necessities." She turned her gaze back to the slumbering infant in her arms, her fingers brushing over his moon-like cheek. "I am a wife, and as a wife, I will never be happy knowing my husband is with another." Her voice softened, but the weight of her words did not diminish. "But I am also a queen. And for a queen, sacrifice is an inescapable truth."

She looked back at Kunti, her eyes shimmering with an emotion that transcended love and sorrow—it was faith, faith in her husband, the bond they shared, and the unspoken vows that no marriage of strategy could sever. "And the truth, Mata," she continued, her voice unwavering, "is that I know Aryaputr Bhima loves me more than anyone. That is enough for me."

A sharp breath left Kunti's lips, her heart aching and swelling. How much strength did this woman hold within her? How many burdens did she carry with grace? She stepped forward, her hands lifting to cup Draupadi's head, her touch filled with overwhelming affection. Her fingers, aged yet firm, caressed the young queen's hair as she whispered, "You are stronger than I ever was, Putri."

And then, without another word, Kunti turned and walked away, the weight of admiration and sorrow heavy in her heart.

The Swayamvar of Valandhara

The great kingdom of Kashi was ablaze with festivity. The skies above the capital were adorned with banners of crimson and gold, and the streets were filled with the melodies of conch shells and drums. The grand arena, prepared for the Swayamvar of Rajkumari Kali—also known as Valandhara—was teeming with warriors, kings, and princes from every corner of Aryavarta. The air was thick with tension, for this was no ordinary Swayamvar.

Many sought Kashi's throne, and its princess was a woman of unparalleled beauty and prowess. The princes of Hastinapur, Suyodhana and his brothers, stood at the forefront, their eyes gleaming with ambition. The other half of Kashi's dominion lay beyond their grasp, and securing this alliance would tip the scales of power in their favour.

A hush fell upon the arena as murmurs of speculation ran through the assembly. The ground trembled slightly as two towering figures strode in.

Bhima Sen, the son of Vayu, entered the premises, his imposing frame exuding raw strength. His eyes burned with an intensity that set the air ablaze. Dhrishtadyumna, the prince of Panchala, his brother-in-law and closest friend, walked beside him. Their presence was a declaration of Indraprastha's claim to the princess.

At the sight of Bhima, Suyodhan's lips curled into a smirk. "So, the son of Vayu dares to stand against me again?"

Bhima scoffed, his voice like thunder before a storm. "Dares?" His knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists. "You should be grateful that I tolerate the sight of you after the thieves you sent to Indraprastha. If I had my way, I would have ended your schemes long ago."

Suyodhan's expression darkened. "Do not throw accusations without proof, Vrikodara. I play with warriors, not cowards who hide behind false claims."

Dhrishtadyumna interjected, his gaze sharp. "And yet, Hastinapur's hands are always found where they do not belong."

The tension was palpable. The air between Bhima and Suyodhana crackled with an unspoken promise—one that would soon find its reckoning.

As the murmurs in the arena continued, King Subahu of Kashi stepped onto the sacred ground. Dressed in ceremonial robes, he stood before the grand Shiva idol at the centre of the arena, performing the holy puja. His deep voice resonated through the assembly as he called forth his daughter.

A divine presence filled the space as Rajkumari Kali emerged.

She was golden—a luminous aura surrounded her, her skin glowing like the soft shimmer of the morning sun. Her eyes, deep and enigmatic, held the wisdom of the cosmos, and her lips curved into a smile that could bring both war and peace. Dressed in silk woven with gold, her ornaments shone with celestial radiance. As she moved gracefully toward the idol of Narayana, she folded her hands in devotion, her every gesture exuding reality.



King Subahu turned to the assembly and declared, "This Swayamvar shall not be won by lineage or wealth. It shall be earned by might. The victor shall prove his worth in combat—the Mace duel."

A deafening roar erupted from the audience.

The arena shook as warriors stepped forward, their weapons glistening in the golden sunlight. The air reeked of sweat and battle-lust. One by one, combatants were eliminated—some flung across the field, others crushed under the force of superior warriors. Blood stained the ground as the competition grew fiercer. Warriors fell, some groaning, others unconscious. The sheer brutality of the matches left no room for weakness.

And then, only two remained.

Bhima and Suyodhana.

The world seemed to hold its breath. This was not merely a duel—it was a reckoning. Fate brought them to this moment, forcing them to stand against each other again.

Their eyes locked, burning with decades of rivalry, hatred, and an unspoken challenge.

The first clash was like the heavens splitting apart. The force of their maces colliding sent a shockwave rippling through the arena, causing even the most seasoned warriors to step back in awe. Dust swirled around them, and the very ground beneath them cracked from the impact.

Suyodhana swung his mace in a deadly arc, its path swift as lightning. But Bhima ducked, his reflexes unmatched, and countered with a strike that sent Suyodhana skidding back, his heels digging into the earth.

They attacked with unrelenting fury—each strike capable of crushing bones, each movement calculated for devastation. The sound of metal meeting metal rang through the arena like war drums. Blood dripped from their bruised forms, yet neither relented.

Then, Bhima's rage reached its peak. With a deafening roar, he swung his mace with the might of a tempest, striking Suyodhan's ribs. A sickening crack echoed as Suyodhana staggered, blood spilling from his mouth.

Enraged, Suyodhana retaliated, aiming to strike Bhima's skull, but Bhima caught his mace mid-air. Their eyes met once more—one filled with raw fury, the other with sheer defiance.

A commanding voice shattered the tension before the duel could reach its fatal end. "This is a Swayamvar, not a battlefield!"

King Subahu's voice boomed through the arena.

Both warriors stood frozen, chests heaving, blood dripping from their wounds.

King Subahu turned to his daughter. "Putri, between them, choose whom you wish to wed."

A hush fell.

Suyodhan's confidence remained unshaken—he was sure Valandhara would choose his brother, Jalasandha. After all, an alliance with Hastinapur was powerful.

But the princess, with a serene smile, stepped forward. She walked past Suyodhana. She stood before Bhima, lifting the garland with her delicate hands. "I choose Yuvraj Bhimasena of Indraprastha as my husband," she declared, her voice unwavering.

A stunned silence fell over the arena before cheers erupted.

Suyodhan's face twisted in fury. His hands clenched as he stepped forward, but Bhima moved, placing himself between the princess and the prince of Hastinapur. Their eyes met one last time—Bhima's was not just a warning but a promise. Suyodhana scoffed, turning away. Without another word, he stormed out of the arena.

The grand wedding ceremony was set in motion as the sun rose the following day. In royal attire, Bhima stood with regal grace, his heart swelling with pride and contentment. Princess Valandhara, draped in crimson silks and adorned with jewels that shimmered like stars, performed the sacred rituals beside him.

The holy fire blazed, its golden flames witnessing the sacred vows. Rishis chanted Vedic hymns, their voices echoing through the grand temple as Bhima tied the Mangal sutra around her neck, sealing their union for eternity. Kashi bestowed upon its princess not just wealth but an army of the finest warriors, golden chariots adorned with gems, and an arsenal of celestial weapons. Elephants draped in silk, thousands of horses, and vast grain fields were gifted as part of her dowry.

And with the blessings of the elders, Rajkumari Valandhara, now Yuvrani Valandhara, departed Kashi, riding beside her husband, her golden aura merging with the radiance of Indraprastha.

Unbreakable Bonds of Indraprastha

The sun cast its golden hues upon Indraprastha as the grand chariots rode through its gates. The air was filled with fresh blossoms, and the kingdom's people gathered to witness the arrival of their new queen—Yuvrani Valandhara, the princess of Kashi, now the wife of Bhima, their beloved Yuvraj.

Standing at the entrance of the royal palace was Maharani Draupadi, her presence radiant, warm, and majestic — like the first light of dawn. Dressed in a resplendent crimson saree adorned with jewels that reflected the sun's brilliance, she extended her arms in welcome.

Valandhara had always heard of Draupadi's greatness from her Bhagini, Rani Dhanumati. But words alone could never capture the depth of a soul. And today, standing before her, Valandhara saw what she had only imagined—a queen who was not just beautiful but powerful, a woman whose mere presence commanded respect and love in equal measure.

Bhima's words echoed in her mind as she stepped forward. "Panchali is fire, Valandhara," he had said, his eyes distant, as if he were seeing her in his mind's eye. "Not the kind that merely warms, but the one that burns through darkness, injustice, and deceit. She is a queen, but she is more than that. She carries a strength even the gods would bow to, yet she bears her pain in silence."

Valandhara had listened intently as Bhima continued, "Her day begins before the sun awakens. She rises when the palace slumbers, ensuring every kingdom detail is in place. She visits the temples, where she prays—not for herself, but for us, for Indraprastha. She oversees the welfare of the people, listens to their troubles, and finds solutions before anyone even asks. By the time we gather for the morning meal, she has already fulfilled the duties of a hundred men."

He had sighed then, a rare moment of vulnerability slipping through. "She is the wife of our five brothers, but she is my heart's anchor. I do not know if fate willed it, but it is true—I love her beyond what words can hold. Yet, she asks for nothing in return."

His gaze was solemn. Bhima turned to Valandhara and said, "You are my wife now and shall have the respect you deserve. I will stand by you, just as I stand by her. But know this, Panchali is the foundation upon which Indraprastha stands. And you will see, Valandhara, that her love is not limited, nor is her kindness. She will embrace you as a sister, just as she did with Bhabhishree Devika."

Now, as Draupadi stepped forward, her smile as welcoming as the gentle breeze of spring, Valandhara felt those words take form. Without hesitation, Draupadi embraced her, whispering, "Welcome home, Bhagini."

At that moment, Valandhara understood why Bhima spoke of her reverently.

As the evening breeze carried the fragrance of sandalwood and incense through the palace corridors, Draupadi guided Valandhara through the halls of Indraprastha, each step echoing with unspoken stories of love, duty, and sacrifice. The torches lining the walls flickered like silent witnesses to the lives entwined within these grand chambers.

Draupadi turned to Valandhara, her gaze warm yet discerning. "You have married a man unlike any other, Valandhara. My Aryaputr Bhima is not just a warrior; he is a force of nature, unyielding in his loyalty, relentless in his love, and disciplined beyond measure."

Valandhara listened intently as Draupadi spoke, her voice carrying pride and profound understanding, "He rises before dawn, his body and spirit ever in preparation for war, for he knows that a protector cannot afford complacency. The sun's first light finds him in the courtyard, honing his strength with the mace and his soul. When others rest, he trains. When others doubt, he acts. When others hesitate, he stands unshaken."

Draupadi's voice softened as she continued, her expression turning wistful. "But beyond the warrior, there is the man whose love is as fierce as his wrath, whose hands that wield destruction can also cradle with infinite tenderness. He may shake the battlefield with his roars, but in the quiet of the night, he is the gentlest father, the most devoted husband. You shall see it, Valandhara—his devotion is not spoken in words but in how he shields those he loves and carries burdens without complaint."

Valandhara felt her heart swell with an emotion she could not name. She had seen Bhima's might but had yet to witness the depth of the man who was now her husband.

Draupadi then gestured towards the women approaching them. "And now, come. There are more who wish to welcome you into our family."

Standing before them was Devika, regal in her simplicity, her gentle eyes reflecting wisdom and grace. "This is Devika, wife of Aryaputr Yudhishthira," Draupadi introduced. "Her strength lies in her quiet resilience, in how she carries her duties without seeking recognition. She is the pillar beside my Dharma Raj, a queen in her own right, a mother who has given us Yaudheya, a prince born of wisdom and honour."

Devika smiled, taking Valandhara's hands in her own. "Indraprastha is your home now, Valandhara. May it be as dear to you as it is to us."

Draupadi then turned towards two other women who stood with quiet strength and noble poise. "And they are Krodhini and Stambhinī, wives of Jyestha Vasusena."

The two women stepped forward, their presence as commanding as the man they had wed. Krodhini, her eyes sharp with intelligence, was the embodiment of resilience, while Stambhinī, with her composed grace, held the wisdom of the ages. Valandhara nodded in greeting, realizing that Indraprastha was not merely a kingdom of men who shaped destiny but also a realm of women whose strength rivalled the mightiest warriors.

A rare sense of contentment settled over Kunti's heart as she observed the exchange. She had seen kingdoms torn apart by rivalry among queens. Still, in Indraprastha, she saw something different here—an unbreakable bond, a sisterhood woven with the threads of love, duty, and mutual respect.

The following dawn, when the air of celebrations still lingered in Indraprastha, an unexpected visitor arrived—Raja Govasena of Sivi. The court gathered as Yudhishthira welcomed him with honour. "Pranipat, Indraprastha is graced by your presence. What brings you to our halls?"

Govasena's expression was grave as he stepped forward. "I have come with a request, Maharaja," he declared. "I seek Rajkumar Yaudheya." A wave of shock passed through the court. The young prince of Indraprastha, the son of Yudhishthira and Devika, was still a child, yet his name was being spoken in matters of sovereignty.

Seeing the confusion, Govasena continued, "I have no son to inherit my throne. My daughter Devika was my only child. But a kingdom cannot stand without a ruler. I am growing old, and Sivi must have someone to lead it. I ask for my grandson, Yaudheya, to return with me and prepare to rule."

Yudhishthira, ever the upholder of Dharma, considered the plea. To refuse a kingdom in need was to neglect duty. He opened his mouth to speak, but Draupadi's voice rang through the hall before he could talk. "Putr Yaudheya will come once he completes his education, Raja Govasena," she stated firmly.

The air grew tense. Govasena frowned, "I can provide for his education, Maharani. Sivi has the finest scholars and warriors to train him."

Draupadi took a step forward, her voice unwavering, her presence towering. "You are asking for our son to be taken from his Prathamamba's arms, to be raised away from his father's shadow. You ask a wife to be parted from her husband for your necessity. I, Maharani Draupadi, will never agree to it. She continued, "He will come to Sivi only after he completes his education under Guru Devavrata, Maharishi Atri, and Maharishi Vashishtha. Only then will he be prepared to take the reins of your kingdom."

Govasena exhaled, his gaze shifting to Devika. He had expected agreement, but instead, he saw something else—relief.

Devika's eyes glistened with emotion. She had not spoken, but the moment Draupadi said the words' to be away from her husband,' something inside her trembled. She had always known Draupadi's wisdom, but she felt its depth today.

Yudhishthira, his decision now firm, nodded. "As Maharani Draupadi has spoken, so shall it be. Yaudheya will remain in Indraprastha until his education is complete. Only then will he assume his rightful place in Sivi."

Raja Govasena studied Draupadi in silence before a smile touched his lips. He inclined his head slightly. "Until today, I had only heard of you, Putri. Today, I am honoured to know you."

And with that, the matter was settled. The court had witnessed not just a decision but the might of a woman whose wisdom rivalled that of kings. At that moment, Draupadi once again proved why she was not merely a queen but the soul of Indraprastha.



Note:

In the original scriptures, Bhima is said to have performed a thousand Yagnas for the birth of Sutasoma. However, as the texts do not detail the exact manner of his birth, I have taken the creative liberty to depict it in my way.

Secondly, according to the original texts, Arjuna did not enter Yudhishthira's chambers unannounced; instead, he declared his intent before stepping in. Even when Yudhishthira advised him against it, Arjuna chose exile for twelve years to uphold Draupadi's dignity.

After the Dyut Sabha, Bhima later tells Yudhishthira that, per the Vedas, 13 days can be equivalent to 13 years. Using the same logic, I have reinterpreted the duration—since 144 months have been completed in 12 years, I have taken the liberty of presenting it as 144 days instead.

Lastly, the scriptures do not definitively mention whether Draupadi ever instructed Bhima to marry again. Thus, I have exercised creative freedom in shaping this narrative aspect.