Shakuni Mama Aur Shraapit Seedhiyan- Mahabharat Crack Fic Series Part I

I lost a 6k word story draft that took me a week to write...

Arjun and Vasudeva moments

"You remind me of my father," he murmured.

The words were softer, almost lost in the stillness of the room, but everyone heard them. The teasing stopped. The smirks faded. The easy mirth in Krishna's eyes dimmed just a little.

Vasudeva, who had been gently supporting Arjuna all this time, stilled. He knew whom Arjuna was speaking of.

Pandu.

His old friend. His comrade. A man taken too soon.

Arjuna's amber eyes were heavy-lidded, hazy with sleep and intoxication, but behind them- there was clarity. A deep, distant emotion settled in them, something that had been there for years but had never truly been spoken aloud.

"I don't remember him much," Arjuna admitted, his voice dipping into something low, something fragile. "I was too young when he left us. But I remember his voice. I remember how gentle he was. How... how he always looked at us like we were his whole world."

Satyaki, who had been leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, uncrossed them. Pradyumna's amused expression faded into something softer. Even Kritavarma, usually composed, lowered his gaze, it felt like intruding in a private conversation.

Arjuna's hand curled slightly against his knee. He exhaled slowly, carefully, as if trying to gather himself, but the words kept coming.

"Jestha bhrata remembers him the most," he murmured, his lips quirking in a way that was neither a smile nor a frown. Just... something aching. "He was the one who held us together after. He was the one who carried all of us when we had no one."

Krishna-ever perceptive, ever knowing-closed his eyes.

"He never got to be a child."

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Arjuna: Through the Lenses of Dwarka - (Part II) More of drunk Arjun Shenanigans

Read (Part II) More of drunk Arjun Shenanigans from the story Arjuna: Through the Lenses of Dwarka by yumjum414 (kya h...

Holi hai bhai holi hai- Mahabharat crack fic Series Part IV

The streets of Dwarka were alive with color. At the heart of it all was a chase: a glorious, chaotic chase that had the entire city stopping to watch.

Pride of the Kurus, the mighty Arjuna ran.

He darted through the palace courtyard, his once-pristine white garments a casualty of the festival’s wrath.

Arjuna, draped in his usual pristine white, had been an easy target from the start. It had taken only moments for the Yadavas- led by none other than Krishna himself- to turn him into a masterpiece of colors. His, once immaculate angavastram now bore splashes of deep crimson, streaks of gold, and bursts of bright blue and green. A particularly enthusiastic handful of pink dust had settled in his curls, softening the sharp angles of his face, giving him a boyish charm that was almost at odds with his warrior’s presence.

Yet, Arjuna still looked striking, perhaps even more so now, with his usual regal bearing exchanged for the infectious laughter that lit up his face.

Behind him, Krishna pursued, a wicked grin stretching across his already color-streaked face, his hands overflowing with more vibrant powder. The midnight glowing skin of his was almost indistinguishable beneath layers of color, yet it failed in hiding that other worldly beauty.

His eyes gleamed with unbridled mischief, and his hands were filled with yet more powder- deep blue in one, a bright golden hue in the other. He moved effortlessly, leaping over fallen water buckets, sidestepping laughing Yadavas, his grin widening as he closed in on his prey.

"Parth!" Krishna called, laughter spilling from his lips. "You cannot outrun me forever!"

"You underestimate a desperate man!" Arjuna shot back, weaving through a group of revelers. "I have survived wars! I can survive this!"

The gathered Yadavas roared with laughter, cheering for both the hunter and the hunted. Some had even started taking bets, while others, like Satyaki and Pradyumna, shouted helpful (or not-so-helpful) advice.

"Arjuna, surrender with dignity!" Satyaki called out, shaking his head in mock pity.

"Or keep running! I have money on you lasting a few more minutes!" Pradyumna added.

"Parth!" Krishna called, laughing as he almost tripped over a toppled pot of water. "Why do you flee? Come, accept your fate!"

"You are my fate!" Arjuna shot back, twisting around a pillar to dodge Krishna’s reach. "BUT today you are my doom!"

The gathered Yadavas: Satyaki, Pradyumna specifically howled with laughter.

Arjuna, nimble as ever, made a sharp turn, only to skid to a stop when he found himself cornered. The steps to the temple loomed ahead, and blocking his escape was none other than Subhadra, arms crossed, grinning as if she had been waiting for this exact moment. Her golden complexion glowed more with the Kumkum smear on her cheeks.

"Swami...." she called sweetly. "Going somewhere?"

"Yes…" Arjuna said, eyes darting between her and the approaching storm that was Krishna. "Away!"

"Not today," Subhadra said, stepping aside just enough to leave him no option but surrender.

Before Arjuna could react, a pair of strong arms wrapped around his waist from behind.

"Got you!" Krishna whispered, laughter laced in his voice.

Arjuna let out a half-laugh, half-yelp as he felt himself yanked backward against Krishna’s chest, trapped. He tried to twist free, but Krishna’s hold was firm, his hands pressing against Arjuna’s waist in a way that sent a burst of color from both of their stained garments into the air.

"No, no—Krishna, wait—!"

But Krishna had no mercy.

He smeared the powder directly into Arjuna’s cheeks, his fingers pressing streaks of blue and gold into his skin. Then, with gleeful abandon, he ran his hands through Arjuna’s already ruined curls, making sure no part of his dear Parth was left untouched by color.

The Yadavas erupted into laughter and cheered as Arjuna squirmed in protest, sputtering through the onslaught.

"M-Madhav- you absolute menace!" Arjuna managed between gasps of laughter.

By the time Krishna was done, Arjuna was unrecognizable, his entire being transformed into a walking celebration of color.

The watching onlookers erupted into cheers, some pounding their fists on the ground in mirth. Even Balarama, who had initially stayed dignified, let out a hearty chuckle.

Arjuna, wiping his face and spitting out some of the powder that had managed to get into his mouth, glared at Krishna. "You planned this."

Krishna grinned, leaning lazily against a pillar. "Oh, Parth, I merely ensured you enjoyed the festival to its fullest."

"You attacked me!"

"I included you."

Arjuna groaned, running a hand through his thoroughly ruined hair, which only resulted in more color streaking down his face. But despite his grumbling, there was laughter in his eyes, and the boyish smile that broke across his lips only made him look even more endearing.

 He turned to Subhadra, who was doubled over laughing, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes.

"You enjoyed that far too much," Arjuna accused, looking at her with his loving smile.

Subhadra beamed at him, utterly unapologetic. "Watching my husband be defeated by my brother? Arya, How could I not!"

Krishna clapped a hand on Arjuna’s shoulder, his own fingers leaving fresh streaks of orange behind. "Come, Parth. We are one color now. Let’s celebrate properly."

And with that, he dragged Arjuna back into the revelry, as Dwarka cheered for their favorite mischief-makers.

As Arjuna plummeted toward his fate, his mind was a storm of regrets and unanswered questions- yet woven through the sorrow was the undeniable truth of all he had lived for.

Arjuna had died long before his body ever fell.

He had died the day he placed his grandsire on a bed of arrows. He had died the moment he first saw his son's lifeless body.

And truly, he had stopped living the day his Madhav left him.

What was left for him in a world where Krishna did not walk?

Somewhere along the years, through war and bloodshed, he had always known-he would not die on the battlefield. Despite his name being synonymous with it, despite his life being defined by it, war had never been his final fate. His end was meant to be something quieter, something lonelier.

As he fell, the jagged rocks tearing through flesh and bone, his life did not flash before his eyes in a blur of bloodstained memories. No, instead, he saw the moments that had made life worth living.

The first time he held a bow, the wood smooth beneath his hands, his heart hammering with certainty-this was his calling. Pitamah's hand rested on his shoulder, firm yet gentle. "Steady, Arjuna. A warrior's hands must never tremble." And in that moment, with Bhishma's unwavering faith in him, he had never felt stronger.

"You remind me why I became a teacher, Arjuna," Guru Drona had said, resting a hand on his head, after the first time he struck the eye of a moving target. Just those words, simple and rare, had meant more to him than any title or prize.

The way Subhadra had laughed when she took the reins, wind whipping through her hair as they rode into the night.

The way Draupadi had looked at him that day in Kampilya-steady, knowing, fierce-as if she had chosen him long before she ever placed the garland around his neck.

He had been so tired for so long.

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Arjuna: Through the Lenses of Dwarka - Echo's of a Life Lived

Read Echo's of a Life Lived from the story Arjuna: Through the Lenses of Dwarka by yumjum414 (kya hai jindagi) with 88...

Opinions regarding a tiny bit spicy story 👀

Bhima and his mighty arms- Mahabharat crack fic Series Part II

The first thud was loud enough to make Arjuna pause mid-sentence. The second thud had Nakula looking up from his polished sword. The third thud made Sahadeva slowly, carefully, close the scroll he was reading. The fourth thud- accompanied by the ominous clinking of golden rings being stripped off thick fingers- had all three of them turning toward the source. Bhima. He was smiling. That was a problem. "You know," Bhima said pleasantly, as he slipped off his armlets and tossed them onto the growing pile of discarded ornaments. "I usually let things go." No, he did not. "I mean, I am a reasonable person." He unfastened his necklace, an impressive piece of gold that clattered onto the table. "Patient, even." Yudhishthira, who had been pretending not to be involved in this mess, shut his eyes. He knew where this was going. He had long accepted that he was doomed to suffer through his younger brothers' antics for as long as he lived. "Bhima," he tried, rubbing his temples, "please." Bhima ignored him. He held up a single finger, dangerously cheerful, as he removed his last ring and set it down with a delicate tap. Then, very deliberately, he cracked his knuckles. "Which one of you," he said, still smiling, "said I wouldn’t be able to carry all three of you at once anymore?" There was silence. Then... "It was Nakula," Arjuna said immediately, shifting slightly behind Sahadeva. "Excuse me?" Nakula turned, scandalized. "It was not! It was you, Bhrata Arjun!" Sahadeva, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat. "It was actually both of you. And technically, I believe I agreed." "Traitor," Nakula hissed. Bhima exhaled through his nose, looking far too delighted for anyone’s comfort. "So that’s how it is, huh?" A beat. Then three things happened at once: Arjuna bolted. Nakula lunged for the door. Sahadeva tried to take the high road and stay put, but immediately regretted it when Bhima lunged. Somewhere in the chaos, Arjuna yelled, "HE CAN STILL DO IT! HE CAN STILL DO IT!" as Bhima caught all three of them in an unbreakable grip. Nakula screeched in outrage, Sahadeva resigned himself to his fate, and Yudhishthira pressed his forehead to the table, done with all of them. And across the room-lounging on a divan, eating grapes: Krishna was laughing so hard he almost fell over. "Oh, this is delightful," Krishna wheezed, wiping at his eyes. "Do it again, Bhima, I wasn't watching properly the first time." Bhima did do it again. Just for Krishna. By the end of it, all three younger brothers were thrown onto a pile of cushions, Bhima stood victorious, and Yudhishthira wondered, not for the first time, why he had been born the eldest. Krishna, still grinning, leaned toward Yudhishthira and whispered, "At least they are affectionate." Yudhishthira stared blankly at him. Then, with the last shred of dignity he had, he got up and left the room. He needed a break. Perhaps a lifetime-long one.

Later that evening, after the chaos had settled and Yudhishthira had successfully escaped the madness (for now), Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva sat nursing their bruised egos and sore limbs.

Bhima, still smug, was polishing off the last of his sweets while Krishna watched with open amusement.

Nakula, who had finally tamed his hair again, crossed his arms. "I still want to know who told Bhima about this in the first place."

Arjuna frowned, rubbing his shoulder. "Yeah, I mean… we said that days ago. When did he find out?"

There was silence as the three of them thought back. Then, slowly, all eyes turned to Krishna.

Krishna smiled.

"You didn’t," Arjuna groaned.

Krishna popped a grape into his mouth. "I may have."

Sahadeva blinked. "Why?"

"Because it was funny," Krishna admitted, with absolutely no shame. "You three, gossiping like little parrots, questioning Bhima’s strength? How could I not tell him?"

Bhima laughed, slapping his knee. "See? Even Krishna agrees! I had to remind you all who the strongest is!"

Nakula gaped at him. "You threw us across the room!"

"And yet," Bhima grinned, "I could have thrown you further."

Arjuna slumped back dramatically. "We are doomed. We have been betrayed."

Sahadeva, ever practical, exhaled. "To be fair, we did doubt him."

Krishna pointed at him. "See? At least one of you has some wisdom."

Bhima patted Sahadeva on the head. "Good little brother. You, I like."

Sahadeva swatted his hand away. "You like throwing me into furniture!"

"That too."

Arjuna leaned toward Krishna. "You are the problem," he accused.

Krishna rested his chin on his hand, eyes twinkling. "Oh, Parth, my dear, my dearest, I am always the problem. You should know this by now."

Arjuna groaned again and let himself fall back onto the cushions.

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I am deadly scared of bees and wasps, basically all insects that go buzz buzz near me and are capable of stinging me, yes, I'm terrified.

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Udderance- Mahabharat crack fic Series Part VI

It was a calm evening in Indraprastha. Golden light spilled across the stone floors as the five brothers gathered in the courtyard, taking a rare break from war councils and weapons training.

Yudhishthira had decided it was the perfect moment to read aloud a philosophical letter from a wise sage, because of course he had.

Bhima was lying on his back with a fig in his mouth, with Nakula braiding his hair without trying to hide how bored he looked. Arjuna leaned on one elbow, absently toying with a piece of grass, and Sahadeva sat upright like a curious owl.

Yudhishthira cleared his throat with great ceremony. “The sage writes: ‘Speech, dear sons, is the true mirror of the soul. One should always weigh each udderance with care—’”

A beat of silence.

Arjuna slowly tilted his head. “…Udderance?”

Bhima sat up very straight. “UDDERANCE?” Nakula’s voice cracked.

Yudhishthira blinked, frowning at the scroll. “Yes. Udderance. The sage writes-”

Sahadeva had his hand over his mouth, already trembling. Arjuna squinted at the scroll. “Bhrata I think the sage meant utterance.”

“Udderance is… much so cow related, I though, even I don’t know if such words really exist” Sahadeva offered helpfully.

Bhima choked. “He’s asking us to weigh our cow-speech with care?”

Nakula fell over. “We must milk our wisdom before speaking, brothers-!”

Yudhishthira’s face had gone scarlet. “That’s not what I- Clearly a mistake on my-”

Bhima doubled over, wheezing. “The next time you give a speech, shall I bring a bucket, O Noble Cow-King?”

Even Arjuna, trying very hard to be respectful, was shaking. “We must moo with meaning, not mutter mindlessly.”

Nakula, barely breathing: “You udderly misread that scroll.”

Yudhishthira dropped the letter and covered his face with both hands. “I’m going to disown all four of you.”

Bhima collapsed sideways into Nakula, giggling like a boy again. “Moo-st you, brother? Moo-st you?”

“Stop it,” Yudhishthira groaned. “Stop right now.”

But no one did. Not even Draupadi, when she passed by moments later and asked what was going on.

And that night, someone (Sahadeva) secretly added a small cow doodle to Yudhishthira’s ceremonial speech scroll.

He noticed it two days later and said nothing.

But he knew.

The Sword

It had started, oddly enough, with failure.

Arjuna-yes, that Arjuna- had all but dropped his sword in the first lesson. Not misplaced. Not handed it over politely. Dropped it. Right in front of Acharya Drona.

The sword clattered like a gong struck too hard, bouncing once on the sun-baked stones and landing neatly at Drona’s feet. Arjuna winced. He was eleven. Mortified.

Drona hadn’t moved. He stared at the boy, eyes unreadable.

Arjuna, cheeks flaming, bent to retrieve it.

“Pick it up again,” Drona said, voice as smooth as dry flint. “Try again.”

No sighs. No comfort. No dismissal.

Just a command from his Acharya and Arjuna bowed his head and obeyed.

The bow had come naturally; it felt like it belonged to him before he ever touched it. But the sword? The sword was different. Intimate. Rebellious. Too close. It demanded something else from him…

Grit?? Grit he hadn’t yet named, but would come to know well. So, he decided to conquer it.

Not out of spite. Not even out of ambition.

He just didn’t like the feeling of losing.

By the end of the week, he’d snapped five wooden swords in half. The servants started hiding the practice ones. By the end of the month, Drona had stopped offering encouragement and simply begun showing up- arms crossed, silent, watching.

In the evenings, when the other princes wandered off to dinner or drowsy afternoons, Arjuna stayed back, panting in the dust, swinging again and again. Sand stuck to his elbows. Sweat soaked through his kurta. He never complained.

“Faster,” Drona would say.

So, Arjuna would try. Bleeding palms, shaking legs- he would try.

He was small, still growing into his limbs, quiet in ways that unnerved even Bhima. But when he moved- when he moved- it was like memory. Not the clumsy rhythm of boys mimicking heroes, but something older. Something remembered in the bones.

Drona saw it early, before the others did.

Before Bhima laughed at Arjuna’s scowl when he lost footing. Before Yudhishthira began smiling after each of Arjuna’s lessons. Before Karna appeared, brilliant and burning, to challenge everything they thought they knew.

Arjuna learned to parry by candlelight. Practiced forms in his dreams. Drona once caught him miming strikes against his own shadow, alone beneath the stars.

He trained with Bhima’s heavier sword, tied sandbags to his wrists, swung through rain until his arms trembled.

Once, when Drona caught him practicing by moonlight, the torchlight casting shadows like dancing ghosts, he asked dryly, “Why are you still up?”

Arjuna didn’t stop, “Because I still don’t like how it feels in my hands.” He paused, flashed a grin. “But soon I will.”

Drona didn’t smile often. But that night, he very nearly did.

-----------------------------------------------

Nakula was spying again.

He would call it “observing,” of course. For educational purposes. Strategic even. Definitely not “lurking under the shade of a pomegranate tree while your overly talented brother glowed like a demigod in motion.”

Arjuna was in the courtyard, training... Like always… Sword in hand, light on his feet, moving with that fluid, maddening grace of his. There was no other word for it. He made swordplay look charming.

It was the worst. Nakula sighed dramatically and plucked a guava from a nearby branch.

He didn’t hate how good Arjuna was- no one did. You couldn’t. It was like hating the sun for rising. But sometimes, just sometimes, Nakula wanted to throw a sandal at him. Lovingly. Supportively. A sandal full of affection.

He watched as Arjuna spun, then halted in a perfect guard position.

Perfect, of course.

“Show-off,” Nakula muttered fondly around a bite of guava. Arjuna looked up. “Nakula,” he called, without turning. “I can feel your glare from here.”

“Wasn’t glaring,” Nakula said, hopping off the low wall. “I was admiring. Huge difference.”

Arjuna wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “You’re always admiring me these days. Should I be concerned?”

“Only if it goes to your head,” Nakula quipped, strolling over. “Which it already has. In fact, your head’s so swollen, I’m amazed it doesn’t throw off your balance mid-spin.”

Arjuna grinned. “Careful, or I’ll make you spar with me.”

“Threats. How loving.” But Nakula held out his hand, and Arjuna, without hesitation, passed him the sword. Nakula staggered under the weight.

“Are you training with Bhima’s sword again?”

“I like the resistance,” Arjuna said casually. “Helps with wrist strength.”

“You need help?” Nakula asked sweetly. “After only four hours of training this morning?”

Arjuna rolled his eyes but smiled. “You wouldn’t understand. You were napping through most of it.”

“I was conserving energy. In case I needed to, I don’t know- rescue you from a particularly dramatic hair-related duel.”

“Once,” Arjuna groaned. “You bring it up once, and it haunts me for years.”

Nakula snickered, then shifted into a stance; feet shoulder-width apart, blade angled down. Not perfect. Not terrible either.

Arjuna stepped behind him and adjusted his shoulders. “You’ve been practicing.”

Nakula didn’t look at him. “A bit.”

“You could ask me to teach you.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Nakula mumbled. “You already train enough.” Arjuna blinked. “Bother me? Nakula, I taught a monkey to climb trees last week because you told me it looked sad.”

Nakula snorted. “You didn’t!”

“I did. You know I did!” Nakula turned, grinning. “Alright, fine. Teach me, O great monkey-whisperer.”

Arjuna mock-bowed. “With pleasure.”

They trained until the sun dipped low. Arjuna taught patiently, correcting with humor. Nakula asked questions. Snuck in jokes. Got whacked once with the flat of the blade for laughing too hard when Arjuna stumbled over a rock.

And through it all, Nakula felt something bubble in his chest, warmth. Not jealousy. Not even the need to compete.

Just the simple, honest desire to be good enough to stand beside his brother.

Not behind him. Beside him.

So that someday, on some battlefield or in some moment that mattered, Arjuna might look at him and nod, not because he had to, but because he meant it. Because Nakula had earned it.

At last, Arjuna clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re improving fast.”

“I’m charming,” Nakula said. “And secretly brilliant.”

Arjuna grinned. “Not so secret anymore.”

They stood together in the golden dusk, laughter fading into quiet. The sword felt lighter in Nakula’s grip now. Nakula raised the sword again, testing a stance. Arjuna adjusted his footwork without a word, smiling.

And just for a moment, Nakula imagined them side by side on a real battlefield someday; not as brothers trailing behind legends, but as legends together.

That would be enough. That would be everything.

Just a little longer

“Arjuna.”

The name was spoken gently, but Krishna’s voice cracked like a leaf in the wind. He knelt beside his brother, his other half- his steady hand reaching for Arjuna’s shoulder, the other resting over the blood-soaked cloth covering the boy’s face: Covering much of the brutality left by the unjust of the battle today.

But Arjuna didn’t move.

Not even a flicker of acknowledgement.

He sat there in the dust, knees drawn, back bowed, cradling his son in his arms as if he were still small- still a child with ink-dark eyes and tiny fingers that used to tug at his bowstring in play. His armor, dented and smeared with soot and gore, pressed cold against the boy’s lifeless cheek.

This was his Abhimanyu. His child. His heart’s first dream, his soul’s fiercest prayer, his son that lay unmoving in his lap.

And now they wanted to take him away. To prepare the pyre. To burn what remained.

They might as well set him on fire.

Because Arjuna knew, he knew, that whatever he was before this moment- it had died with his son.

Oh.

How could he explain it to Krishna- to his god, his breath, his dearest soul- that it wasn’t just a body in his arms, but every hope he'd held across battlefields, across exile, across aching, endless years of longing for peace?

That this boy was the proof that something good had come from his hands- not just war and ruin and killing. That this boy had been his reason to believe in a future.

And now… Now, there was no future left.

“No,” Arjuna rasped, the word so raw it sounded more like a wound than speech. “Just a little longer.” His voice shook, nearly breaking under the strain. “Please.”

For thirteen long years, he had dreamt of holding his sons. Of running his hands through their hair. Of showing them the stars he used to name with Krishna. Of teaching them to shoot and pray and love.

He had nothing left- nothing but this. This boy. This lifeless body, so small again in his arms.

He deserved this.

Even if he deserved nothing else from fate—no crown, no kingdom, no forgiveness—he deserved to hold his son for just a while longer.

Nakula stood some feet behind, unmoving. His jaw clenched, his knuckles white, and his eyes swollen. He was murmuring to the grieving Upapandavas, trying to comfort children when he, himself, was breaking. He didn’t know how to mourn this.

He didn’t know who to mourn first- his moon-faced nephew, who once giggled in his arms as he spun him through the gardens… or his sister-in-law, now a husk of herself, drained and crumbling beneath the weight of her cries, or his brother, his brilliant, unshakable brother: now hunched and hollow, clutching loss like it was the only thing keeping him from vanishing too.

Sahadeva knelt in silence, palms joined in prayer, tears slipping down his face without resistance. Of all the brothers, Sahadeva had always sensed what others didn’t speak aloud- and what he saw now in Arjuna terrified him. Because he wasn’t just watching a father grieve, he was watching his brother unravel.

No one could move him.

Not even Bhima, whose arms had once uprooted trees and torn chariots in half, could loosen Arjuna’s grip.

The mighty warrior, the Vrikodara, had tried. He had knelt beside his brother, voice thick with grief, hands gentle despite their strength.

“Arjuna, Brother, please, let him go.”

Yet Arjuna clung tighter. His arms- bloody, bruised- wrapped around Abhimanyu’s still form like a man shielding fire from the rain.

Bhima tried again, but he could not move. Because it wasn’t just muscle holding Abhimanyu’s broken body: It was grief. Grief so dense, so ancient, so fierce that even Bhima’s strength turned useless against it.

Arjuna looked up at him then- his eyes rimmed red, lashes stiff with unshed and shed tears, dust clinging to the curve of his cheek. And in them, Bhima saw something that hollowed him out completely.

A boy. Not a warrior. Not a prince. He just saw his younger brother crushed under the weight of a loss the world had no name for.

“Just for a moment, Dada,” Arjuna whispered, his voice cracked. “If I let go now…” Arjuna’s voice faltered, and the tremor in his fingers spoke what he couldn’t say. Bhima read the unsaid words in his brother’s eyes.  I’ll forget. I’ll forget how he felt.

It wasn’t just about holding Abhimanyu’s lifeless body. It was the desperate, aching need to remember: to etch the feel of his son’s broken body into his very bones.

And in that moment, Bhima realized: Arjuna wasn’t just fighting to hold onto his son. He was fighting to hold onto himself.

Bhima swallowed hard.

He had no reply. Only a tear that rolled, hot and unwanted, down his cheek and into the dust. He stood up and stepped back, shoulders shaking, fists clenched uselessly at his side.

Then, it was Yudhishthira who approached, his heart breaking into countless pieces at the sight of his younger brother, his warrior, his Phalguna, reduced to a shadow of himself.

With the gentleness of a father, Yudhishthira placed a hand on Arjuna’s shoulder, feeling the tremors that wracked his brother’s frame. His voice, usually calm and commanding, was a mere whisper now, heavy with sorrow.

“Phalgun,” Yudhishthira whispered, the name coming from him as a caress, as a gentle call to the boy Arjuna once was- so full of life, so full of promise. “My Anuj...” He paused, his chest tightening, fighting the tears that threatened to escape. “Please, let him go. We need to prepare him for the rites. You must let go, brother.”

Arjuna’s eyes remained distant, fixed on his son, his hands clutching Abhimanyu’s body as if he were afraid it would vanish, as though the very air would steal him away. His lips quivered, but no sound came.

Yudhishthira’s words were a soft echo in the storm of Arjuna’s grief. He knelt in front of him, his eyes filled with pain. "He is at peace now, Phalgun. But his soul cannot move on without this- without us giving him this final gift." The king’s voice faltered, and the man who had so often held his brothers together was now nothing more than a fragile thing, broken at the sight of his younger brother's agony.

Yudhishthira’s hand remained gently on Arjuna’s, the touch conveying all the unspoken love between them. But it was not enough. Arjuna didn’t move. His grip on Abhimanyu tightened.

Finally, it was Krishna who knelt beside him- quietly, like dusk folding itself over the ruins of a battlefield.

And in moments like this, one remembers why he is called divine- not solely for his miracles, not only for his might- but because he speaks truth even when it tears through the soul like a blade.

He placed a hand on Arjuna’s back, feeling the tremble that coursed through him, the quaking breath, the silent storm of a grief so heavy that not even gods could shoulder it.

“Arjuna,” Krishna whispered, his voice gentle- aching, threaded with centuries of love and lifetimes of brotherhood. “Our Abhimanyu… he fought like fire. He bore your name with pride. He made you proud. He made us all proud.”

Arjuna didn’t respond. His arms only curled tighter around his son’s lifeless body as if to protect him from the cold that had already taken him.

Krishna’s voice softened, but each word pressed like a blade to the soul. “Now you must do what he did. Fulfill your duty. He upheld your name, Parth. Now you must uphold his.”

He paused, then added, almost pleading, “Do not let grief cloud his honor. Let his farewell be worthy. Let your love walk with him across the fire, not cling to the ashes left behind.” Still, Arjuna didn’t look up. His cheek was pressed to Abhimanyu’s blood-matted curls. The tremble in his hands had stilled into something far worse: numbness.

“You taught him how to live, how to aim straight, how to stand tall even when the odds crushed around him.” Krishna’s voice broke slightly, despite himself. “Now teach him how to cross over. That too- is a father’s role.”

Slowly, painfully, Arjuna turned his face toward Krishna. His eyes- once bright with clarity and resolve- were red, hollow, and unfocused. The storm had passed, but it had taken everything with it.

His voice, when it came, was no more than a cracked breath, so fragile it barely reached Krishna’s ears. “My gods, Hai Prabhu,” Arjuna rasped, “I will-I will do my duty. But hai Krishna- just a moment more. Please… Please, let me stay with him… just a moment more, Madhav.”

The plea struck Krishna like no weapon ever had. The great Vishnu, the keeper of dharma, the anchor of the universe: could do nothing but close his eyes, crushed under the weight of a sorrow he could not lift.

“I know,” Krishna whispered. “I know, Parth.”

His hands, steady as they rested on Arjuna’s shoulders, now trembled as well. The bloodied cloth between them was growing colder by the minute.

“But you must let him go,” Krishna said again, voice raw. “You must walk him to the pyre. Not because you are ready but because he deserves that walk with his father.”

“I will be with you, Arjuna. Always. Your brothers are here. Your family is here. You are not alone. We still need you.” He paused, his fingers tightening slightly on Arjuna’s shoulder.

“You must let go, Parth. For the sake of his soul… and for your own.”

Arjuna’s eyes lifted to Krishna’s, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. Just them. Just grief. Just love. And the impossible moment between a father’s heart and his duty.

Then, like a bursting dam,

From deep within Arjuna’s chest, there came a cry- raw, wounded, primal. A sound not meant for the world of men, a sound that shattered through the silence and scraped at the sky. His fingers, once iron-bound in grief, began to tremble. His arms, bruised and bloodstained, slowly- painfully- unwound from the broken body of his son. And into Yudhishthira’s waiting arms, the boy was passed.

The eldest Pandava held Abhimanyu as though the weight might crush him- not his body, but his soul. His knees nearly buckled, but he did not flinch. The calmest brother, the pillar of their house, stood trembling.

Yudhishthira looked down at the boy: his nephew, his brave-hearted kin, and then up at his broken brother.

His voice cracked as he whispered, “He will never be forgotten, Phalgun. Not while I breathe. Not while any of us remain. Your son will live on- in every tale sung of courage, in every heart that knows his name.”

At Arjuna’s cry- a sound so devastating it reignited the weeping of Subhadra’s wails in Draupadi’s arms- Sahadeva and Krishna moved like lightning, instinct propelling them forward. Sahadeva caught his brother’s shoulder, steadying him with arms that had never seemed more desperate, while Krishna pulled him close.

No one there, no soul present, would ever forget how Arjuna wept that day. And Arjuna himself would never remember whose arms caught him, whose embrace cradled his collapse. Because in that moment, the world became nothing but grief.

He could barely see Abhimanyu anymore- blurred behind never-ending cascading tears. Just a flicker of a face he once kissed goodnight: a boy who had once run to him, laughing in a sun-drenched courtyard.

Arjuna’s body buckled, and he fell into Krishna’s chest, breath hitching, the sobs powerful and shaking.

And Krishna- His Madhav held him like a friend, like a brother, like the god who had carried oceans and now bore the storm that was Arjuna’s grief.

The fire had not yet been lit. The pyre stood ready.

But for Arjuna, the true burning had already begun: deep inside his chest, where no flames could be seen, and none could ever be extinguished.

His heart was already ashes, and in that quiet, trembling moment, Arjuna let go: of his son, of a piece of his soul.