The news of Draupadi's pregnancy had spread swiftly through the palace of Indraprastha. The royal gardens were bathed in the soft glow of the early morning sun, its golden light filtering through the clusters of Ashoka trees, casting dappled patterns on the manicured grass. The courtyard was alive with the joyful chaos of the young princes at play.

Prativindhya was trying to wrestle Vrishasena and Banasena while Yaudheya watched with calculating eyes. Sushena and Bhanusena Draupadi sat beneath the shade of a blossoming Champa tree, her hand resting on her belly. The quiet knowledge of her pregnancy with Nakula's child had cast a soft warmth through the palace — a fragile yet undeniable sense of continuity. Beside her sat Devika, her slender hand resting on Sutasoma's dark curls. On her other side, Valandhara watched Sushena and Bhanusena, who were crawling after a small golden ball, as their laughter rang through the air.

Krodhini and Stambhinī stood close together beneath a peepal tree, their gazes fixed on their sons. Vrishasena had pinned Prativindhya to the ground, only for Banasena to tackle him from behind, sending all three boys into a fit of breathless laughter.



Nakula and Sahadeva stood beneath the marble archway overlooking the courtyard. Nakula's gaze softened as he watched Draupadi. His hand brushed over the hilt of his sword — a reflex born not of fear but of quiet protection.

Bhima's deep laugh cut through the noise. "Come on, Prativindhya! Are you going to let Vrishasena and Banasena defeat you?"

Prativindhya huffed, his dark curls sticking to his forehead. "They fight together. It's not fair!"

Banasena grinned, his amber eyes flashing mischievously. "Life isn't fair."

Vrishasena's face was more measured. "You need to adapt," he said, echoing his father's teaching.

Bhima's gaze flicked toward Vasusena, who stood nearby with a quiet, observing calm. A faint smile played on Vasusena's lips. "They are learning well," Bhima said approvingly.

"They will need to," Vasusena replied, his gaze sharpening.

Yudhishthira stepped into the courtyard, furrowing his brow in contemplation. His eyes softened as he saw Draupadi resting beneath the tree. Devika rose gracefully and approached him, her hand brushing his arm. He smiled faintly and placed his hand over hers.

At that moment, a palace guard approached, bowing low before Yudhishthira. Behind him stood a shadowy figure—a man clad in the muted tones of a spy, his hood drawn low over his face.

Yudhishthira's brow lifted. "What is it?"

The spy knelt, his voice low and clipped. "I bring news from Hastinapur, Maharaja."

Bhima's expression sharpened. Vasusena's gaze flicked toward the spy, his features hardening. Nakula and Sahadeva exchanged a glance.

"Speak," Yudhishthira commanded.

The spy's gaze remained fixed on the marble floor. "Yuvraj Suyodhana is preparing to leave for Dwaraka. It is said that Mahamahim Baladeva has agreed to train him in the art of mace fighting."

Silence.

Bhima's gaze turned to steel. "Guru Baladeva?"

The spy inclined his head. "Yes, Yuvraj. Suyodhana seeks to match the strength of Vayuputr Bhima."

Bhima scoffed. "Let him try."

Nakula's expression was more thoughtful. "He will not stop at mere training."

Sahadeva's gaze darkened. "He will seek dominance."

Vasusena's jaw tightened, his gaze resting on the spy. "If Mahamahim Baladeva trains him, Suyodhana will not return the same."

Draupadi's gaze sharpened. "This is not a challenge to you alone, Arya Bhima. It is a statement."

Yudhishthira's expression was unreadable. His gaze drifted toward Prativindhya and Vrishasena, still wrestling beneath the trees, and toward Yaudheya, who stood apart, his eyes filled with quiet calculation. Sushena and Bhanusena were now giggling over a fallen garland of flowers.

"We are not children anymore," Yudhishthira said quietly. "And neither is Suyodhana."

Bhima's hand tightened into a fist. "Let him prepare himself. I will not yield."

Nakula's hand brushed Draupadi's arm. "He will not come after us yet."

"No," Draupadi murmured, her hand resting once more on her belly. "But the time will come."

Vrishasena approached then, his small frame straight and proud. Banasena followed, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Kakashree," Vrishasena said, "when will we learn the mace?"

Bhima smiled darkly. "Soon."

Prativindhya dusted himself off and walked toward Yudhishthira. His father's hand settled on his head. "You fought well," Yudhishthira said.

Prativindhya's gaze was solemn. "I will grow stronger."

Yaudheya's quiet voice followed. "We all will."

Bhima's smile was razor-sharp. "Good."

Vasusena's gaze lingered on his sons — Vrishasena and Banasena standing side by side, their expressions mirroring his calm intensity. Krodhini and Stambhinī watched them from beneath the shade of the peepal tree, their gazes proud yet protective.

Draupadi's hand brushed Nakula's wrist. His gaze softened as he leaned down and touched her belly. A faint flutter beneath his palm made his eyes darken with quiet wonder. "He will have strength," Nakula whispered. "And heart."

Draupadi smiled faintly.

Yaudheya stepped closer to his Matula Draupadi. "Will the baby be like us?"

Nakula's gaze swept across the courtyard, where his brothers, wives, and children gathered. His gaze met Vasusena's, and a quiet understanding passed between them. "The baby will have all of you to guide," Nakula said softly, " just as you have had us."

Vrishasena's mouth curled into a faint smile. "Then baby will be strong."

A gust of wind stirred the trees, and children's laughter filled the courtyard once more. Beyond the marble archways, the future loomed—uncertain and inevitable. But for now, they stood together.

The Warrior Princess of Manalura

Arjuna had wandered far into the heart of Manalura, the city echoing with whispers of a warrior princess whose prowess with the bow was said to rival that of the gods themselves. A warrior princess. The notion stirred something deep within him — an unnamed pull, an intrigue sharpened by the fact that he had never encountered a woman of such martial skill. His hands had known the weight of a bow and the sting of battle from boyhood — but a woman who stood as an equal on the battlefield? His warrior's heart thrummed with restless curiosity, tangled with a quiet yearning he could not yet name.

On the other side of Manalura, the warrior princess Chitrāngadā stood before her spies, the embers of quiet hope burning beneath her steely gaze. They had confirmed it. Arjuna, Panduputr, the wielder of Kindhura, the warrior sung about in countless tales, had arrived. In disguise, yes, but unmistakable to those trained in the art of shadow and silence. A part of her had always loved him — a love born from stories whispered through corridors and sung beneath starlit skies. She had crafted him in her mind, but now he was here, flesh and bone, and gods help her heart, more magnificent than even the legends described.

He resided on the banks of the Barak River. Chitrāngadā's breath hitched when she saw him from afar — his broad shoulders bent slightly as he washed his hands in the river, the dusky twilight painting the ripples in hues of gold and violet. His profile was a sculpture of strength — sharp jawline, sun-kissed skin, the intensity in his eyes even in repose. At that moment, she knew her heart was lost. But a thorn twisted within that desire bloomed — a bitter truth she had lived with all her life.

She had been born the sole heir of King Chitravahana, a king bound by an ancient boon that permitted only a single offspring in each generation. With no son to bear his lineage, Chitrāngadā was raised not as a daughter but as a prince. Her hands were shaped not for silken threads but for the cold bite of steel. Her gait was that of a warrior, her shoulders squared with the sword's weight at her hip. And so, her appearance had grown sharp, masculine — a chiselled hardness born from necessity. She was not delicate. Not soft. Not... woman enough. And how could a prince among men like Arjuna sought after by princesses as radiant as moonlight — ever look upon her with desire?

That night, beneath a sky with dying stars, Chitrāngadā slipped away to the ancient grove where the god of Love, Kama, and the youthful Lord of the seasons, Vasanta, held court beneath the rustling canopy. Barefoot and breathless, she knelt before them, her hands trembling as she pressed them together in silent supplication. "Had I but the time," she whispered, her voice shaking with quiet desperation, "I could win his heart by slow degrees and ask no help of the gods. I would stand by his side as a comrade, drive the fierce horses of his war chariot, guard his tent through cold nights, and hunt with him beneath crimson skies. Surely, he would look at me one day and wonder, 'What boy is this? Have my good deeds followed me into this life?'"

Her eyes glistened beneath the starlight. "But I am not the woman who will sit in lonely silence, nursing despair with nightly tears and a daily patient smile. The flower of my desire shall not wither before it has tasted the sun. Yet, it is a lifetime of labour to make one's true self known and honoured. Therefore, I have come to thy door, O Kama and Vasanta, take from my young body this primal injustice. This plainness. For a single day, make me as beautiful as the bloom of Love in my heart. Let him see me not as a warrior but as a woman."

The gods listened. Perhaps the tremor of unyielding courage in her voice, the quiet defiance of a warrior who refused to surrender to fate, softened their immortal hearts. They smiled upon her. And instead of a single day of beauty, they gifted her an entire month of radiance that mirrored the golden bloom of spring.

The following day, as the sun cast honeyed light across the river, Arjuna sat in quiet meditation beneath the arching branches. The coolness of Barak's breeze kissed his skin, and he sensed it—a shift in the air, a delicate scent of jasmine and sandalwood, soft as a caress. His eyes fluttered open, and he saw her.

Chitrāngadā walked toward him, the morning sun haloing her form. Her dark tresses cascaded over her bare shoulders, kissed by gold. Her eyes, deep pools of midnight, shimmered beneath the delicate arch of her brows. The warrior's strength in her gait had softened into the fluid grace of a goddess. She was exquisite in every curve and movement, a delicate symphony of feminine allure and quiet strength.



Arjuna's breath caught in his throat. His warrior's heart, accustomed to battle and discipline, faltered beneath the weight of desire. He rose, stepping toward her as though drawn by some invisible tether. His calloused fingers twitched with the sudden urge to brush against her silken cheek, nearly undoing him.

"Who are you?" his voice was hoarse.

Chitrāngadā smiled softly, her eyes lowered. "A daughter of Manalura."

Arjuna's heart thudded against his ribs. "Daughter of Manalura?" he echoed. "Then you are the daughter of King Chitravahana?"

Desire had already settled deep in Arjuna's bones when he stood before King Chitravahana. His words were measured, but his gaze burned with quiet fire. "Grant me your daughter's hand in marriage, O king!" Arjuna requested with noble demeanour. "I am a proud son of a renowned Kshatriya lineage."

The king's curiosity was piqued. "Whose son are you, brave warrior?" he asked.

Arjuna stood tall, his voice filled with pride. "I am Dhananjaya, son of Brahmarshi Pandu and Kunti."

The king's gaze was heavy with quiet contemplation as he spoke, "A king named Prabhamkara was once born in our lineage. He had no sons and performed supreme austerities for the sake of offspring. The great Lord Shankara, pleased with his homage, granted him a boon that only a single offspring would be born in each generation. Thus, my daughter was born to me."

His voice was steady, but Arjuna saw the flicker of vulnerability beneath it. "She will have to carry forth my lineage. She is my putrika. The child born from your union will become the heir of Manalura."

A gentle smile spread across Arjuna's face. "Raja Chitravahana, I vow to uphold your condition. I shall reside here for a month, and upon my departure, I request that you send your daughter to join me in Indraprastha. When our child comes of age, I will ensure their rightful place as heir in Manalura. Until that day, Manalura will remain under the protection and guardianship of Indraprastha and my brothers. Furthermore, if Chitrangada wishes to accompany our child to Manalura, I will not object."

King Chitravahana's gaze softened, a quiet relief flickering across his aged features.

Chitrāngadā's Confession

Like a silent river, time flowed through the days and nights as Arjuna and Chitrāngadā grew closer. Their conversations stretched long into the evenings beneath the starlit sky — words of steel and war entwined with the softness of unspoken affection.

Arjuna had not expected this. No woman warrior could speak of warfare with such depth and precision. Chitrāngadā knew the names of ancient battle formations, the strengths and weaknesses of every weapon, and the precise angle at which an arrow should be loosed to strike true even through a storm. One evening, beneath the amber hues of a dying sunset, Arjuna sat beside her, sharpening the edge of his sword. Chitrāngadā's gaze followed the rhythmic motion of his hands, but her mind lingered elsewhere.

"Where did you learn all this?" Arjuna's voice broke the quiet.

She smiled faintly. "My father had no son."

Arjuna's hand stilled. "So, he made you his heir," he said, understanding dawning in his gaze.

"Not only his heir." Chitrāngadā's smile tightened. "His warrior."

Arjuna's eyes softened with admiration. "Then you are not only a daughter of Manalura... you are its strength."

Her breath hitched, not from the weight of his words but from the quiet tenderness behind them. But beneath that warmth lay a shadow, a calm fear that refused to dissolve. because the woman Arjuna admired, the warrior princess he saw before him, was not entirely accurate. Her beauty was a gift, a fragile illusion born from a desperate prayer. And she feared the day he would see her as she indeed was.

One day, Arjuna began to ask about her. "Who is she? This warrior princess about whom everyone speaks?"

Chitrāngadā's heart twisted painfully each time he asked because it was her. He was unknowingly falling in love with a shadow of herself, the warrior beneath the veil. That evening, as Arjuna sat beneath a sky darkened with restless clouds, Chitrāngadā approached him. Her steps were slow, her heart a restless storm beneath her chest. "Arya."

He looked up, smiling faintly. "Come sit with me."

She hesitated, then lowered herself beside him. "There is something I must tell you," she said softly.

His gaze sharpened. "What is it?"

Her hands curled into fists upon her lap. Her breath trembled as it left her lips. "The girl you've heard about, the warrior princess of Manalura..." Her voice fractured. "It is me."

Arjuna's brows furrowed.

"I was raised as a prince. My hands are rough from the bow, and my shoulders are squared from the sword. I am not the soft beauty you see now in this face, this grace it is borrowed from the gods."

Arjuna's gaze darkened with quiet understanding. But Chitrāngadā pressed on, her voice trembling beneath the weight of long-buried fear. "I feared you would not accept me as I am. I prayed to the gods, who gifted me this beauty for a month. I have lived beneath this borrowed face, afraid of the day you would see the warrior beneath the illusion."

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "I am not beautifully perfect as the flowers with which I am worshipped. My garments are stained with dust and blood. My feet bleed from the thorns of the path I have walked."

Her voice deepened, raw and vulnerable. "But the gift I offer you, Arya, is my heart. It carries the pains, joys, hopes, and fears of a daughter of the dust. Herein lies an imperfection that is yet noble and grand. After this month, accept me as your companion for the coming days."

Her hand touched her abdomen. "I carry your child in my womb," she whispered. "And I swear under your guidance and your family's protection I will raise the child to be the second Arjuna. Though the child may rule Manalura, I will send them to you when the time comes. And perhaps then you will see me as I truly am."

Her gaze lifted, shimmering with quiet defiance beneath her vulnerability. "I am Chitrāngadā. The daughter of a king. A warrior. Not a goddess to be worshipped nor a moth to be brushed aside with indifference."

Arjuna's eyes softened, his hand rising to cup her cheek. His thumb brushed away a single tear that trailed down her face. "Chitra," he whispered, "why would you think I would love you only for your beauty?"

She lowered her gaze. "Because men..."

"I am not other men." He lifted her chin, his dark eyes steady and burning with quiet intensity. "Do you think I am so foolish as to love a body over a soul?"

Arjuna smiled faintly, his gaze deepening. "When exiled into the forests, I wandered around. And then I met Ulupi. Yes, I respect her for her strength. But respect is not love. I accepted her because fate placed her in my path. She bore me a son, Iravan. But what binds us is duty, not love."

His hand slid to her shoulder, steadying her trembling form. "And Krishnaa..." His breath softened at the mention of her name. "I love her. She is the fire in my blood, the storm in my soul. She is the one I will always return to, even if my body travels across realms. But my heart... it is vast enough to hold more than one love. I have loved Krishnaa since I set eyes upon her, and I will love her until my last breath. But that does not make my love for you any less true."

Chitrangada's eyes glistened, her lips parting in a soft, unsteady breath. "I love you, Chitra," Arjuna said, his voice low and raw. "Not because the celestials made you beautiful but because you are brave. Because you are fierce. Because you are a warrior who stands with her chin raised even when the world calls her unworthy." He smiled softly. "And when you ride into battle beside me, I will not see the illusion of beauty created by the divine entities; I will see the strength of the woman who won my heart through courage and fire."

Chitrangada's breath shuddered as his hand slid to her waist, drawing her closer. "How..." she whispered. "How do you travel so swiftly between kingdoms? Between hearts?"

Arjuna's lips curled into a half-smile. "Because of Chetak. He is the steed of my Jyeshta, Vasusena. A gift from Suryadev himself. He can cut through the wind as swiftly as the sun rides through the sky. I can cover what would take other days in hours." He winks, "And hearts... I born to steal them."

A tear slid down her cheek. "And yet you have stopped for me..."

"For you," Arjuna whispered, his lips brushing her brow, "I would stop even time itself."

Chitrangada's breath hitched as his arms wrapped around her, pulling her into the warmth of his chest. The moonlight washed over them, casting them in silver and shadow. That night, beneath the dark sky, scattered with a thousand stars, they did not speak. Words were unnecessary when hearts had already been laid bare.

Whispers of Love and Trust

The golden sun bathed the marble halls of Indraprastha in a soft glow, casting long, delicate shadows upon the polished floors. The air hummed with the palace's usual bustle, the murmurs of courtiers and the rhythmic footsteps of guards echoing through the grand corridors.

But amidst this vibrant stir, a sudden energy shift rippled through the court as a foreign figure stepped into the hall, a messenger from Manalura, flanked by the soldiers of Indraprastha. His gait was measured, yet the intent in his eyes was unmistakable. The sentinel announced, "Maharaja, I come bearing a message from Rajkumar Arjuna from Manalura."

Yudhishthira's calm demeanour cracked for a brief moment, a flicker of unrestrained joy sparking in his eyes at the mention of his beloved brother's name. A rare smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Yuyutsu stepped forward with his usual composed severity, accepting the scroll with both hands. His brows furrowed slightly as he unravelled the letter, his eyes gliding swiftly over Arjuna's elegant handwriting. Yudhishthira's gaze softened as he watched his brother's reaction, awaiting the news. Yuyutsu exhaled deeply, his hand tightening over the parchment. His voice carried a measured weight as he said, "Manalura is now under the protection of Indraprastha."

A quiet cheer resonated through the court, smiles blooming across faces. But Yuyutsu's eyes remained dark with restrained emotion as he added, "Arjuna... married Rajkumari Chitrāngadā out of love, not alliance. She carries his child... and she is on her way here."

A heavy silence pressed down upon the room — the kind of silence that blooms when something profound has been spoken. The tension hung for a heartbeat longer than it should have.

Draupadi's serene smile cut through the heaviness like a balm. "I have heard much about the Rajkumari of Manalura," she said thoughtfully. "Rani Dhanumati once spoke of her, a warrior princess of striking prowess and unwavering strength. And now... carrying Arjuna's child."

Her gaze sharpened as it turned toward Yuyutsu. "Brata," she said with quiet authority, "send a contingent of our finest soldiers toward Manalura. I know she will travel with her people, but let Indraprastha's arms welcome her as one of our own." Yuyutsu bowed his head, already calculating the arrangements in his mind.

Draupadi's gaze shifted toward Nakula, her expression steady but curious. "And what of Naga Kanya Ulupi and Putra Iravan?"

Nakula blinked, momentarily surprised by her composed inquiry. "Bhabhishree Ulupi informed me she will remain in Bhagirathi. Permanently shifting to the Yamuna is... difficult for her kind. But Iravan," his eyes glimmered with pride. "He will come. Perhaps within a few days."

Draupadi's gaze softened with maternal concern. "Such a young child — how will he travel?"

Nakula chuckled. "Bhabhishree Ulupi will accompany him here and then return to Bhagirathi."

Draupadi nodded thoughtfully, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Her gaze then drifted toward Bhima. "Arya Bhima," she said, her voice laced with warmth, "you should call upon Putra Ghatotkacha too. I know he thrives in the northern forests, but the love of a father... he deserves that. And if Bhagini Hidimbaa wishes to visit, let her. Do not impose; the Rakshasa clan holds its ways. But let Ghatotkacha meet his brothers. And let him meet Valandhara, too. A family should know its blood."

Bhima's usually intense eyes softened with quiet devotion. His head bowed with a serene smile, and he accepted her gentle counsel.

Amidst the murmurs of satisfaction and quiet smiles exchanged across the room, only Niyati and Yuyutsu remained still. Their eyes met across the hall — a silent understanding passing between them. They both knew where Arjuna was heading next - "Dakshin."

In the inner quarters of the palace, golden light filtered through the latticed windows, casting soft patterns upon the marble floor. Draupadi sat at a low table, her slender fingers trailing over scrolls and parchments.

Devika and Valandhara approached quietly, their silken garments rustling softly as they settled beside her. Draupadi's smile brightened at the sight of them. "Come," she said, gesturing toward the scrolls. "Help me with these village records."

Valandhara nodded and reached for a parchment, but Devika's gaze remained fixed on Draupadi's composed face. After a long pause, she spoke. "Don't you feel... even an ounce of sadness?" Devika's voice was gentle yet weighted with quiet disbelief. "Your husband... has a child now with another woman. Another wife."

Draupadi's eyes glimmered as a soft smile curved her lips. "Bhagini, Niyati once told me something I have never forgotten. 'The key is to let go. Let go of ego, attachments, the person you think you should be... and others expect you to be. And when you do, you will love yourself and the real you emerge — stronger, truer.'" Her gaze grew distant as if reaching toward a truth beyond the confines of the room. "There is a strength in that vulnerability... a strength that cannot be explained. Only experienced."

Valandhara's brow furrowed. "But... don't you love them? Truly love them?"

Draupadi's eyes softened, the barest flicker of amusement dancing in them. "I ask myself that question often. If I love myself, truly and deeply, what would I do? The answer comes easily: I would love those near to me. And then love those near to them."

Her voice gentled. "Love is patient and kind. It is not jealous, boastful, or conceited. It is not rude or selfish. It takes no offence and harbours no resentment. Love delights in truth and stands firm even when burdened. It always trusts, always hopes, always endures."

Draupadi's gaze sharpened slightly. "It took time for me to understand this. It was not a revelation born in a day... but that is what makes us human."

A quiet figure stood at the edge of the room — Krodhini, listening intently. Her arms crossed over her chest as she spoke, her tone edged with curiosity. "Then... you trust them? All of them?"

Draupadi's gaze met Krodhini's with quiet steel. "Brata Yuyutsu once said... "Have enough courage to trust your loved one more time. And always... one more time."

The room stilled into profound silence.

Devika's eyes shimmered with quiet understanding. Without hesitation, she reached for Draupadi and embraced her fiercely. Draupadi stumbled back, laughter on her lips, but Valandhara's hand shot out, steadying her with a protective touch upon her belly. A quiet smile passed between them—a shared understanding deeper than words.

Curse of the Crocodiles

It was the third month of his pilgrimage. Arjuna, the scorcher of foes, stood at the edge of the vast ocean, where the horizon bled into the sky in a haze of gold and blue. The sacred tirthas of the south lay before him, sanctified by the footsteps of sages and the whispered hymns of countless prayers. Yet, there was an unsettling emptiness to them, a hollow silence that clung to the air like a lingering curse. The ashen sands beneath his feet felt cold, untouched by the warmth of human devotion.

Arjuna's gaze swept over the Agastya tirtha, Soubhadra, the purifying Poulama, the tranquil Karandhama known to bear the fruits of a horse sacrifice, and the great tirtha of Bharadvaja, famed for its power to cleanse even the most grievous sins. Yet, the places that should have been thrumming with life, echoing the sound of sages' chants and the splash of pilgrims' feet, stood abandoned and forgotten. The mighty Kuru prince furrowed his brows, unease coiling in his chest like a serpent.

Arjuna approached a group of ascetics seated beneath the shade of an ancient peepal tree. Their eyes were deep pools of wisdom yet darkened with a shadow of concern. He folded his hands in reverence and spoke, his voice steady but laced with curiosity. "O revered ones, why have these sacred tirthas been forsaken? Why do those who are learned in the Brahman and devoted to dharma shun these hallowed grounds?"

One of the eldest ascetics, his beard flowing like white silk over his chest, opened his eyes and sighed deeply. His gaze seemed to pierce through Arjuna's soul as he spoke. "Descendant of the Kuru lineage, these tirthas have been abandoned because they have become the dwellings of five cursed crocodiles. These creatures, born of divine punishment, drag away those blessed with the power of austerities. That is why even the most devout among us dare not approach them."

Arjuna's jaw tightened. His eyes sharpened with resolve. Cursed crocodiles—it was not in his nature to shrink from danger nor to let fear dictate the sanctity of a sacred place. He straightened his shoulders, his gaze burning with quiet determination. "Then I shall confront this curse," he declared.

The ascetics stirred uneasily. One of them rose to his feet, his wrinkled hands trembling. "Kounteya, these are no ordinary creatures! Their origins are steeped in divine will. You risk your life by seeking them."

Arjuna's lips curved into a faint smile. "What is life without the preservation of dharma?" he replied.

Despite their protests, Arjuna turned toward the path leading to Soubhadra, the supreme tirtha named after a Maharshi. His bare feet pressed into the cool earth as he approached the waters, glistening under the sun's dying light. A soft breeze caressed his face as he stepped into the sacred river, his breath steady.

No sooner had the water touched his chest than the surface exploded in a froth of violence. A monstrous form surged from beneath the depths—a giant crocodile, its scales dark as night, its golden eyes burning with primal rage. It latched onto his leg with bone-crushing force. Pain screamed through his body, but Arjuna's warrior instincts sharpened. With a mighty roar, he plunged his arms beneath the water and seized the creature's jaws. His muscles strained, and his veins bulged as he heaved the beast from the water onto the rocky shore. The crocodile thrashed wildly, but Arjuna held his strength like Indra's storm.



And then, before his disbelieving eyes, the monstrous form began to shimmer and change. The thick scales melted into soft, radiant skin. From the twisted jaws and coiled tail emerged a woman of otherworldly beauty adorned with every ornament, her dark hair cascading down her back like a river of night. She stood before him, divine and luminous, her large eyes brimming with tears of gratitude.

Arjuna's breath quickened. He stepped forward, awe and confusion mixing in his chest. "Who are you?" he asked softly. "Why did you dwell beneath these waters, casting fear upon the sacred ground?"

The woman lowered her eyes, her golden bangles trembling as she clasped her hands together. "O mighty-armed one! I am Varga, an apsara who once roamed freely in the celestial forests of the gods. I was among the favourites of Kubera, the lord of wealth."

Her voice wavered with the weight of memory as she continued. "I had four dear companions—Sourabheyi, Samichi, Budbuda, and Lata. One day, we were passing through the forests on our way to the abode of the world's protector. We beheld a brahmana there—handsome, radiant with the power of his terrible austerities. His presence illuminated the entire forest like the sun breaking through a storm."

Her gaze darkened with shame. "Arrogant in our youth and beauty, intoxicated by the god of love's influence, we sought to tempt him. We laughed, sang, and danced before him, hoping to distract him from his vows."

Arjuna's brow furrowed. "And how did the Brahmana respond?"

Varga's voice trembled. "He did not waver, not even for a breath. His soul was rooted in dharma. Enraged by our insolence, he cursed us—to become crocodiles and dwell in these waters for a hundred years, dragging down those who dared approach. Desperate, we fell at his feet and begged for forgiveness."

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "The brahmana's heart softened. He said the curse would end when a supreme man—one blessed by dharma and strength—dragged us out of the waters. And now, O Partha, you have freed me."

Arjuna's lips parted in understanding. "The others..." he whispered.

Varga nodded. "Yes. My sisters remain bound by the curse. Only you can release them."

A quiet resolve settled over Arjuna's face. "Then I shall not stop until they are freed."

Varga's smile was soft and filled with gratitude and reverence. "O son of Kunti, your strength is not of arms alone—it is the strength of your heart that sets you apart."

Without hesitation, Arjuna stepped into the waters again. Four more times, the river roared, and four more crocodiles struck from the depths. Each time, Arjuna fought with the strength of a celestial warrior, dragging the cursed apsaras from the depths with unyielding resolve.

Finally, on the fifth and final attempt, Arjuna stood on the banks of the river, his chest heaving with exertion. Before him stood Varga and her four companions, Sourabheyi, Samichi, Budbuda, and Lata, radiant and divine, their eyes gleaming with reverence and gratitude. They stepped toward him, their hands folded. "O Partha, you have freed us from centuries of torment. May your path be blessed by the gods themselves."

The five apsaras shimmered and vanished, their forms ascending toward the heavens. The river stilled. The curse was lifted. The sacred tirthas breathed again. Arjuna stood beneath the crimson sky, the silence now sacred rather than cursed. He purified the tirthas with holy rites, ensuring pilgrims could return without fear. Then, turning his gaze toward the horizon, he set forth again.

He reached the city of Gokarna and bathed in the sacred waters of the western ocean. From there, he travelled along the coastline, visiting the tirthas scattered along its shores. When the fourth month of his pilgrimage began, Arjuna finally reached Prabhasa, where the sacred confluence awaited him.

Lessons of Legacy and Mastery

The sun lingered lazily over the ashrama, its golden tendrils weaving through the tall sal trees, casting dappled shadows upon the soft, earthen ground. The sacred grove was alive with the hum of nature — the rustling of leaves, the chirping of birds, and the faint murmur of the nearby river. Beneath the ancient banyan tree, Maharishi Atri and Maharishi Vashishtha sat upon mats of kusa grass, their serene faces glowing with the wisdom of countless ages. Before they sat Prativindhya, Vrishasena, and Banasena — their wide eyes glinting with curiosity, their young minds eager to grasp the threads of knowledge that stretched beyond mortal understanding.

Atri's calm, melodic voice began weaving the first tale. "Long before even the ancestors of your ancestors walked this earth, there lived a king named Harishchandra — a man renowned for his unwavering truth and dharma. One day, the great sage Vishwamitra tested him. He demanded the king's entire kingdom as a gift. Without hesitation, Harishchandra gave away his land and riches. But Vishwamitra was not satisfied. He demanded more of the king's self, family, and honour. Harishchandra, despite the agony that clawed at his heart, surrendered all without faltering in his dharma. Tested to the brink of ruin, forced to work as a menial servant, and separated from his wife and son, he never wavered from the path of truth. And in the end, the gods themselves descended, restoring all that he had lost, for his dharma had triumphed over every trial."

Prativindhya's brow furrowed. "But why did the gods test him so cruelly? Why must truth come at such a terrible cost?"

Vashishtha smiled faintly, his aged eyes crinkling. "A test of truth is never cruel, child; it is refining. Gold cannot become pure without the heat of the fire. Harishchandra was not being punished but shaped into a vessel of perfection. Do you not think that truth has a price?"

Vrishasena's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "But... what if Harishchandra had failed? Would the gods have abandoned him?"

Atri's gaze sharpened. "Perhaps the gods might have, but he would have abandoned himself first. Staying from one's path is casting aside the essence of who you are."

"But isn't there mercy for those who falter?" Banasena's soft voice broke through the tension.

Atri's expression softened. "There is always mercy but only when one seeks to return. Dharma is not a prison; it is a compass. It allows you to stumble and rise again. But you must walk the path willingly."

Their young minds stirred with more questions, but Bhishma's tall, imposing frame appeared at the grove's edge before they could ask. His silver hair caught the dying sunlight, giving him an ethereal glow. "Come," his voice was low and steady. "It is time for your bodies to learn what your minds have grasped."

Vrishasena and Banasena rose eagerly, leaving Prativindhya with Atri and Vashishtha. Bhishma led the two boys to the open courtyard, where weapons of all kinds lay upon polished wooden racks. Bhishma's keen gaze assessed them both as they stood before him, their tiny fists clenched at their sides.

"Hold this," Bhishma instructed, handing each of them a slight bow. Their hands struggled to bear the weight, but neither boy complained.

Vrishasena's grip was firm but rigid. "Relax your arm," Bhishma said, stepping behind him. His large hand closed over Vrishasena's smaller one, adjusting his stance. "Strength is not in the grip but in the flow. You are fighting the bow; let it become part of you."

Banasena's hands trembled under the bow's weight, and his jaw tightened. Bhishma knelt before him, his gaze piercing yet steady. "Fear is heavier than any weapon. Cast it aside. Breathe. Feel the bow. Let it become an extension of your heart."

Vrishasena grunted and drew the string back, his arm shaking. The arrow released and landed off-centre. He frowned. "Again," Bhishma said calmly.

Banasena's arrow didn't reach the target, and his lips quivered in frustration. "Again." Bhishma's voice was unyielding but not unkind. "You are not failing. You are learning."

A hundred arrows later, Vrishasena's shot finally struck the centre. His chest swelled with pride. Banasena's arrow was still falling short. His tiny shoulders sagged. Bhishma touched his chin, raising it. "Victory is not measured by where the arrow lands but by the steadiness of the hand that releases it."

Awakening

The sun was soft upon the golden spires of Indraprastha, casting a mellow glow across the grand courtyards and lush gardens. A gentle breeze whispered through the carved archways as the guards at the northern gate stood in sharp attention. The faint sound of horse hooves upon the polished marble echoed through the open halls.

A chariot arrived first — a regal sight draped in silken shades of deep green and gold. The sigil of Manalura gleamed upon its sides. A slender figure stepped out, her gait steady and unyielding. Chitrangada, the princess of Manipur, stood tall, her hand gently resting upon the curve of her belly, where life stirred within her. Her dark eyes held the quiet strength of a warrior, but there was softness, too — a rare vulnerability that only motherhood could bring.

Almost simultaneously, another figure approached — not from the northern gates but from the shadowed path leading toward the gardens. A single serpent coiled lazily at her feet as the scent of river moss and cold water followed her presence. Ulupi, the Naga princess, walked with effortless grace, her dark emerald robes catching the fading light. In her arms rested a small, fragile form wrapped in soft swathes of blue silk — her son, Iravan, barely a few months old. His tiny fists curled near his face, dark lashes brushing his pale cheeks as he slept.



The two women's eyes met for the first time. Chitrangada's gaze was steady—assessing. There was a quiet calculation in her eyes as she took in Ulupi's lithe figure, the iridescent sheen of her dark hair, and the faint glimmer of scaled markings along her wrists. It was a warrior's gaze—untrusting, cautious.

Ulupi, in contrast, looked upon Chitrangada with calm understanding. There was no hesitation in her gaze, no defensiveness—only quiet acceptance. Silence settled between them for a moment — not cold but weighted with the gravity of a new beginning.

It was Draupadi who broke the stillness. "Welcome, Bhagini." Draupadi descended the marble steps with the grace of a queen — her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders, the crimson of her garments deep as the evening sky. Her smile was warm but knowing — a quiet strength beneath the softness.

Ulupi bowed her head slightly in respect, her hold on Iravan instinctive as the baby stirred faintly. Chitrangada hesitated, then inclined her head, her hand drifting to the swell beneath her navel.

Draupadi's smile deepened. She stepped forward, resting her hand on Ulupi's arm and brushing her fingers over Iravan's downy head. "He has Arya Arjuna's strength," she whispered.

Ulupi's eyes softened. "And his heart, I hope."

Draupadi's gaze shifted to Chitrangada. Her eyes lingered briefly on the swell of her abdomen. Draupadi's hand brushed lightly against her arm. "We are bound together, Chitrāngadā."

Chitrangada's eyes flicked toward Ulupi, her expression unreadable. She was a warrior recognizing another warrior—a silent acknowledgement of shared strength and quiet rivalry.

Suddenly, the ground beneath their feet trembled.

A sharp pulse like a heartbeat reverberated through the marble floors. The torches along the hall flickered violently, the flame bending toward an unseen force. The air grew heavy and thick with a strange tension that pulled at the very bones of the palace.

Chitrangada's hand flew protectively over her belly. Ulupi's arms tightened around Iravan as the baby whimpered, his tiny fists clenching against the silk.

From the far courtyard, a sharp sound of stone grinding against stone echoed through the open hallways.

Draupadi's eyes widened. "What is happening?"

They followed the sound toward the eastern training grounds. The pulse beneath their feet quickened with each step, a restless vibration that echoed through the marble and the walls.

The scene that met them was unlike anything they had witnessed before.

At the centre of the disturbance stood Yuyutsu, calm and composed, his gaze steady upon the trembling form of Prativindhya kneeling at his feet. The boy's small frame quivered, his palms pressed hard into the earth beneath him. Thin tendrils of light, molten gold and deep crimson, curled through the cracks in the marble beneath his hands. His breathing was shallow, and his lips parted in an almost soundless gasp.

Yudhishthira's voice rang out, sharp with alarm. "Prativindhya!"

Bhishma, Vasusena, Bhima, Nakula, and Sahadeva stood frozen, eyes wide as the ground pulsed with unnatural force. A sharp gust of wind howled through the training ground. The torches lining the courtyard flared violently, flames bending toward Prativindhya as though drawn by an unseen force.

And then — the hiss.

A cold sound, sharp and piercing — like steel sliding across glass.

Ulupi's dark eyes narrowed. The faint iridescence of her scales flared across her wrists. Without another word, Ulupi stepped forward. And then she changed.

Dark silk melted into scales of glistening emerald and gold. Her slender limbs lengthened, curling inward as her body coiled and expanded into the massive form of a serpent. The sharp glint of her fangs shimmered under the torchlight as her enormous, sinuous body slithered across the marble. The cold sound of scales scraping against stone sent a chill through the gathered crowd.



Draupadi gasped, stumbling backwards in fear. "Niyati!"

Niyati's hand shot out, grasping Draupadi's wrist before she could flee. Her voice was calm. "Do not move."

Ulupi's golden eyes darkened. Her massive body slithered toward Yuyutsu's feet, her imposing form coiling protectively around the kneeling child.

Bhishma's hand flew to the hilt of his sword. "Ulupi!"

But she paid no heed. Her enormous hood flared wide as her massive coils wrapped around Prativindhya's small frame.

"Ulupi, stop!" Vasusena's voice rang out, sharp with tension.

Ulupi's golden gaze sharpened. A low, cold hiss escaped her throat.

Prativindhya's eyes widened as a faint sound escaped his lips, not in fear but recognition. His trembling fingers curled around the scales beneath his palms. "No."

Yuyutsu's calm and steady voice cut through the tension. His gaze remained on Ulupi. "Let her do it."

Bhishma's brows furrowed. "Yuyutsu—"

But before Bhishma could finish, Ulupi's coils tightened — and then she sank. The ground beneath them opened.

Stone and earth parted beneath Ulupi's massive body as she dragged Prativindhya into the planet. The sharp sound of grinding stone and shifting soil filled the air. The marble floor cracked, curling inward toward the growing hole as the serpent's glistening emerald form slipped beneath the ground — pulling the boy with her.

"Prativindhya!" Yudhishthira's cry was sharp and raw.

Vasusena surged forward, but Yuyutsu's hand lifted slightly. "Do not interfere."

The hole widened darkly, endlessly, until nothing was left but the echo of stone grinding upon stone.

And then silence.

Draupadi's hands flew to her mouth. Her body shook violently against Niyati's steady hold. Bhima's fists curled, his gaze dark with fear. Sahadeva's hands gripped Nakula's arm. Bhishma's sword glinted beneath the torchlight — half-drawn.

Yudhishthira's gaze darkened. "Where is he—"

Suddenly, the ground trembled once more—a sharp sound like the strike of a whip cut through the air. The marble beneath their feet cracked and lifted.

And then she rose.

Ulupi's massive form shot out from the earth, emerald scales flashing beneath the moonlight as her serpentine body curled upward toward the sky. Her coils unfurled, and from within the shimmering darkness of her grip, Prativindhya emerged.

The boy's small form was limp, his arms hanging slack at his sides, but the faint golden glow still pulsed through the veins of his hands and beneath his eyelids. His dark hair whipped around his face as the wind roared beneath them.

And then Ulupi's coils unwrapped. Prativindhya fell swiftly toward the waiting ground.

Yuyutsu's hand shot out. He stepped forward gracefully, catching the boy's fragile body against his chest. His hand curled protectively around the boy's head as Prativindhya's breath steadied.

Yuyutsu stood there cradling the child in his arms for a long moment. His gaze lowered as Prativindhya's hands curled weakly into the fabric of his robes. The crowd stood frozen. No one moved. No one breathed.

Slowly, Ulupi's enormous body curled back into her human form. The sound of scales sliding against the ground faded into stillness as her slender frame knelt before Yuyutsu. Her gaze lifted, golden and knowing.

Devaki stepped forward, her eyes dark with quiet concern. "What... happened to him?"

Ulupi's voice was soft. "He is the form of Panchabhootas. Her gaze drifted toward Prativindhya's sleeping form. "He was trying to feel the earth beneath him. But this earth, the soil of Indraprastha, did not recognize him. He could not connect to it."

Bhishma's gaze sharpened. "And you helped him?"

Ulupi inclined her head. "I took him into the earth to its depths so that he could understand its heartbeat."

Vasusena's jaw tightened. "Is this necessary every time he practices the earth element?"

Ulupi's gaze darkened. "I don't know."

Sahadeva's voice broke the quiet. "Then, Bhabhishree... how did you know how to do it?"

Ulupi's gaze shifted toward Yuyutsu. Her lips curled faintly, the slightest flicker of a smile. "Mahadeva told me."

The crowd fell into stunned silence.

Bhishma's gaze darkened. Vasusena's fists curled at his sides. Yudhishthira's brows furrowed. Draupadi's gaze shifted toward Yuyutsu, whose calm expression betrayed nothing.

Ulupi's gaze softened. "He will awaken... in time."

Yuyutsu's hand curled over Prativindhya's small form. The boy stirred faintly, his breath soft and steady against his chest. Yuyutsu's eyes remained dark. "Yes," he murmured. "In time."



Note: -

Chitrāngadā's Story: In the original script, Arjuna saw Chitrāngadā and immediately fell in love with her. However, I have drawn inspiration from Rabindranath Tagore's "Chitra," weaving a deeper narrative in which Chitrāngadā changes her appearance with divine help to win Arjuna's love. This adaptation enriches her character, adding emotional depth and highlighting her internal conflict and eventual self-acceptance.

Timeline and Stay: As per the original texts, Arjuna stayed with Chitrāngadā in Manalura for three years before departing toward the southern pilgrimage (Dakshina). He later returned to her and waited until she conceived their son. Afterwards, he left for Prabhasa. In the traditional narrative, Chitrāngadā did not visit Indraprastha except during the Rajasuya Yagna. I have expanded her role to explore the emotional complexities of her relationship with Arjuna and the Pandava family.

Ulupi and Iravan's Presence: In the original versions, Ulupi and her son Iravan appeared only during the Rajasuya Yagna. I have taken the creative liberty of including them earlier in the story to enhance the emotional and mystical layers of the narrative and deepen the connection between Arjuna, Ulupi, and their son.