Echo's Of A Life Lived
Echo's of a life lived
What did my father call me when I was younger?
As Arjuna plunged into the abyss, he heard his brother Bhima's voice calling out to him, the last desperate cry for him to hold on. His other brother did not even spare him a glance. The son of Yama merely uttered the cold truth- his most fatal flaw- and continued on his path to enlightenment.
The jagged edges of the mountain tore through his skin, each impact sending shocks of pain through his weary frame. Yet pain was nothing new to Arjuna; it had been a companion in every chapter of his life. Now, at the end, it felt almost like a solace door waiting to open, leading him to where his Madhav stood with open arms.
The spinning world came to a stop. His back lay against the unforgiving earth, and his eyes, tired yet unseeing, beheld the pristine blue sky above. The blues reminded him of the ocean surrounding Dwaraka, and the clouds reminded him of the waves Krishna had once commanded with laughter in his voice. The clouds hung still, like the frozen crests of those very waves.
Had I always been Arjuna?
No I think he had called me Krishnaa.
What was the name of the book that Sahadeva and I debated over a lifetime ago?
Among all his brothers, Sahadeva had been his quiet solace. Bhima and Nakula carried an energy that demanded attention, but Sahadeva was the stillness in the storm. The two of them, introspective in their ways, had navigated chaos with shared glances and unspoken words. Though, when the time came, they were the very sparks that ignited mischief.
Despite his calm demeanor, Sahadeva possessed a wit sharper than any blade. When Yudhishthira once sought his advice on moral dilemmas, he had responded, "Try not to gamble your kingdom next time." The entire hall had erupted into laughter- everyone except Yudhishthira, Of course.
His youngest brother, with unparalleled knowledge, is his gentle, kind Deva. He used to be the tiniest baby, with chubby hands always reaching toward his untamable curls. One smile from his youngest brother, soft and fleeting, like a timid ray of sunlight peeking through clouds, could melt Arjun's heart like utter softening under the sun's warmth. His brother carried the heavy burden of knowing the future
I hope we can still talk about your favorite poems and lament the foolishness of the world around us, just like we did when we were young- perhaps somewhere beyond this realm.
Nakul, have I ever told you that your laughter was enough to lighten the darkest of days?
Nakul, the charmer, the peacemaker, the one who never failed to make Arjuna smile even when grief held him captive. His younger brother was more than his renowned beauty; he possessed a rare kindness, an understanding of emotions as deep as Sahadeva's understanding of logic.
Perhaps it was why animals were drawn to him. The wildest of creatures-horses, birds, even stray dogs-flocked to his side as if they could sense his untamed heart, one free of malice. Bhima had once joked that Nakula could win wars simply by leading an army of beasts.
After Abhimanyu's death, Nakula approached Arjuna in the gentlest, most thoughtful way. He tended to small things, like polishing Abhimanyu's weapons or leaving food by Arjuna's side when he wouldn't eat. "I can't imagine your pain, Bhrata, but I do know this-Abhimanyu adored you. Every time he spoke of you, his eyes shone brighter than the sun. He would want you to keep fighting, to honor his memory. He'd never forgive me if I let you give up." Nakula's quiet, persistent care reminded Arjuna that he wasn't alone in his grief, even when words failed.
Thank you for always cheering me up. I hope you'll still be there to annoy me when it's my turn to join you.
Bhima's bear-like embrace- when was the last time I held him?
Bhima, his elder brother, his shield, his greatest rival and ally. They had turned everything into a competition: who could shoot faster, who could run farther, who could lift the heaviest weight. Bhima, who laughed the loudest, fought the fiercest, and loved the hardest.
Bhima, who always teased Arjuna when he won, saying, "Even the greatest archer can't outmatch my strength," and Arjuna would retort, "Strength is nothing without precision, brother."
On the battlefield, they had been an unstoppable force. Bhima would clear the path like a storm, and Arjuna would follow, striking with precision. Together, they had been a force of nature, their synergy unmatched. Yet Bhima, the mighty warrior, was also the one who cradled children in his arms, who told the wildest tales of war, exaggerating every detail just to hear the laughter of his loved ones. "The asura was as tall as three mountains!" I roll my eyes every time.
How could I have ever doubted the love in his heart? I would give anything for just one more embrace.
Jesth Bharata... I never meant those words I said that day.
When their father died, Yudhishthira wiped Bhima's tears, held Arjuna for hours as he wept, and consoled the twins as they witnessed their mother step into the fire. After that, he tended to the rishis, ensuring they were fed, and took on the immense burden of handling the funeral rites with a composure no child his age should have had to bear.
For years after, Yudhishthira was their father. The one who guided them, the one who worried over them, the one who bore the weight of duty so that his brothers would not have to. He smoothed their fears with his steady voice, his hands firm but kind upon their shoulders.
Arjuna wondered- had Yudhishthira ever been a child himself? Had he ever been allowed to stumble, to make mistakes, to cry without the weight of responsibility forcing him to wipe his own tears before anyone could see?
Perhaps that was why fate had been so unkind to him, why Dharma itself tested him in ways none of them could comprehend. Because Yudhishthira had never been allowed to fail and learn from it- he was expected to be right, always. A flawless king, a righteous man, an unwavering guide.
But Arjuna knew the truth. Knew that behind the wisdom, the patience, the seeming detachment, there was a man who had once been a boy- one who had carried too much for too long, whose heart had been burdened by expectations too heavy to bear.
And Arjuna, in all his righteousness, had failed to see it until it was too late.
Jesth Bharata, forgive me.
Abhimanyu, what did your smile look like, my son?
His dimpled face, radiant like the moon, the sparkle in his eyes that held boundless curiosity and mischief. He had smiled just like his mother- soft yet unwavering, with an innocence that belied the warrior's blood in his veins. His laughter had been the sweetest melody Arjuna had ever known, echoing through the halls of Indraprastha, in the courtyards where he trained, in the soft glow of evening when father and son sat side by side, speaking of battle, honor, and dreams of the future.
Arjuna remembered the first time Abhimanyu had held a bow. The boy had been so small, barely able to pull the string, but determined, nonetheless. "One day, I will be like you, Pitashree," he had said, his voice bright with conviction. Arjuna laughed, adjusting his son's grip, ruffling his curls. "You will be greater, my son," he had promised.
But fate had stolen him away too soon. His pride, his greatest joy, had been left broken, surrounded by enemies, trapped in a web of deceit and cruelty. And Arjuna- mighty, victorious Arjuna- had not been there to save him.
Would he be waiting for him, just beyond this life? Would he rush toward him, grinning as he always did, bow in hand, eager to show his father how much stronger he had become?
Or would he look at him with quiet reproach, asking the question Arjuna had asked himself every day since that cursed battle- Why weren't you there?
Subhadra, did I ever tell you that your smile reminds me of our son?
His wife, his fire, his fiercest the princess who had taken the reins of her fate as easily as she had taken the reins of his chariot that fateful day. She had not waited to be rescued, nor had she hesitated when he held out his hand. She had laughed, eyes alight with mischief, wind whipping through her hair as they rode away, her knowing smile promising that this was only the beginning of their story.
He could still see her as she had been that day, unafraid, radiant, free. And when Abhimanyu was born, Arjuna saw her again in their son- in the crinkle of his eyes when he laughed, in the tilt of his head when he listened, in the sheer, unstoppable will that burned within him. He had her fire, her stubbornness, her boundless warmth.
But had he told her enough? Had he ever whispered to her in the quiet of the night how much she meant to him? That beyond war and duty, beyond victories and losses, it was she who had given him his greatest happiness?
Did I tell you enough, Priye? That I loved you since the moment I first saw you? That I loved you even more in every moment after?
Panchali, my fire, my queen- how could I ever have deserved your love?
From the moment she placed the garland around his neck, he had been hers. Not just by fate, not just by duty, but by the quiet pull of something deeper, something undeniable. She had chosen him, and yet, had he ever truly been worthy of her?
His most beautiful, fiercest, wisest wife. The one who had stood unbroken through every storm, who had faced humiliation and war with her chin held high, who had been the strength none of them had deserved, the strongest amongst them all. She had loved him despite his absences, despite the distances between them, despite the battles that had taken him far from her. She had been his fire, his fiercest advocate, his harshest truth. And yet, how many times had he let her down?
He had won her hand, but had he ever truly won her heart? Had he ever given her all that she had given him? Did she know, in the quiet moments, when duty did not weigh upon them, that he saw her? Not just as a queen, not just as the mother of his children, but as his Draupadi- the woman who had laughed at his arrogance, who had met his gaze without fear, who had walked beside him, always beside him, even when the world had turned against her.
Draupadi, tell me my love- how can I ever be worthy of you?
Uttara, my child, my daughter in all but blood.
Did I ever tell you that you were the daughter I always wanted to have and so much more?
He had watched her grow from a bright-eyed girl who once looked up to him with admiration, calling him Guru, to a woman who bore the weight of tragedy with a quiet, unyielding strength. The day Abhimanyu fell, she had not wept before others. She had carried his child within her, and for his sake, for the son who would never meet his father, she had stood unbroken, even when the world around her crumbled.
You were barely more than a child when the war stole everything from you. I watched you stand in the ashes of a shattered world, carrying life within you while drowning in grief. And yet, you endured.
I should have protected you, should have spared you from this pain. But you, my brave girl, bore it with a quiet strength that humbled even warriors.
You were always meant for joy, not sorrow. If only the gods had been kinder.
Did I ever tell you how proud I was of you?
My sons- brave, noble, gone too soon.
The best of us lived in you. Prativindhya carried your mother's fire, Sutasoma had Bhima's fierce heart, Shrutakarma bore my own stubborn will, Satanika was Nakula's sharp mind, and Shrutasena was Sahadeva's quiet wisdom.
You were not just our children- you were the promise of a future we would never see. You fought like lions, defended your home like true Kshatriyas. And yet, you were slain in your sleep, denied even the honor of a warrior's death.
How cruel fate is, to take our brightest stars before dawn.
Pitamah... Did you ever forgive me?
The man who had once held him as a child, who had taught him to wield a bow before he could even walk properly, now lay upon a bed of arrows- his own arrows.
Arjuna still remembered the firm grip of his Pitamah's hands as they corrected his stance, the deep voice that guided him through his first lessons, and the rare smile that softened his otherwise unyielding features when his young grandson struck his mark. Bhishma had been a fortress, an unshakable pillar of Hastinapura-until the day he fell by Arjuna's hand.
Arjuna had always known this battle would come. But he had never imagined what it would feel like.
He had fired those arrows with trembling fingers, his heart screaming even as his duty commanded him forward. Each shot had been precise, each strike had been devastating. But no matter how sharp his aim was, nothing could dull the pain in his chest.
"Pitamah," he had whispered, kneeling by the bed of arrows. "I-"
Bhishma had only smiled, weary yet serene. "You did well, my son," he had said, as if none of it- none of the war, the pain, the broken family- mattered anymore. But Arjuna could not take solace in those words. He wanted to believe them, wanted to believe that Bhishma had truly meant them. But how could he, when the sight of his grandfather, his teacher, his elder: pierced and broken by his own hands, haunted him even now?
Did you ever forgive me, Pitamah? Even if you did, I do not know if I can ever forgive myself.
Acharya, Did I ever make you proud?
From the moment I first held a bow, it was your voice that guided my hands. Your lessons shaped me, your praise lifted me, and your approval became my greatest pursuit. More than a teacher, more than a master of warfare, you were like a father to me.
I gave you my everything. I trained until my fingers bled, until my arms ached from drawing the bowstring a thousand times over. I surpassed every challenge, met every expectation, and honed my craft with a devotion unmatched by any of your disciples. And in return, you called me your greatest student. You assured me that I was the best, that no one- not even your own son- could rival me.
But tell me, Acharya, did you ever truly mean it?
Was I your pride, or merely your sharpest blade? A weapon you forged with care, but never love?
I told myself it didn't matter. That your approval, your teachings, your guidance were enough. That your distance, your unwavering gaze fixed on your son, did not bother me. But on the battlefield, when I stood before you as an enemy, I saw the truth.
You looked at me not as a son, not even as a beloved student, but as a mere warrior standing in your way. And yet, when you fell, when you closed your eyes for the last time, I could not help but wonder-did some part of you, even for a fleeting moment, think of me as yours?
Acharya, you were a father to me. But was I ever a son to you?
Mata... did I ever tell you how much I missed you?
Kunti, the mother who shaped them all, the woman whose love was as fierce as the storms she endured. She was the first person to ever hold him, to ever whisper his name with pride, to ever soothe his childhood fears. He remembered the way her hands, calloused yet gentle, ran through his curls as she sang lullabies that carried the weight of ages.
He used to watch her in awe as a child- how she carried herself, how she stood tall even when fate stripped everything away from her. She never wept where they could see, never faltered where they could hear. Her strength was like the unyielding earth beneath his feet-always there, always holding them up, even when it cracked under its burdens.
And yet, he wondered... did she ever long for a moment of softness? A moment where she wasn't a queen, wasn't a mother, wasn't duty-bound- just Kunti?
She had raised them with fierce love but also with lessons that often tasted bitter. Her decisions had shaped their fates, made them stronger, but also left wounds too deep to ever truly heal. There had been times he resented her, times he wished she had chosen differently, times he wished she had been gentler with them. But as he grew older, as he carried his own burdens, he understood. She had done what she thought was right-what she had to do.
And then there was Karna.
Arjuna's breath caught in his chest at the mere thought of him. The shadow of a brother he never got to know, the warrior who should have been by his side but instead stood against him. The man he had hated, fought, and finally killed-only to learn the truth when it was far too late.
For years, anger had burned in his heart like an unrelenting fire. But now, as he lay upon the cold rocks, it was not anger that remained- only sorrow. Had Karna ever wondered, even for a second, what it would have been like to stand with them, to be one of them?
Would things have been different if Kunti had spoken the truth earlier? Would it have changed anything at all, or was fate too cruel, too unyielding to ever let them be brothers in this life?
The last time he saw Kunti, she had been walking away. Choosing exile, choosing to leave them behind along with Dhritarashtra and Gandhari. He hadn't understood it then, had barely spoken a word when she made her choice. But now, as he lay battered and broken upon the mountains, he understood. She had given everything for them- her youth, her happiness, her very being. And in the end, she had simply wanted rest.
Mata, did you ever find peace? Did you ever forgive yourself?
Because I forgave you a long time ago.
Madhav-was I ever truly Arjuna before meeting you?
You were my charioteer, my guide, my anchor when the world threatened to sweep me away. You were my laughter in moments of quiet, my wisdom in moments of doubt, my Sakha in every joy and sorrow. Without you, was I ever truly Arjuna, or was I just a shadow of the man you once steadied?
Do you remember, Madhav? The nights in Dwarka when we raced our chariots under the moonlight, laughing like reckless children? When we sat by the ocean, watching the waves kiss the shore, speaking of things too great for even kings and warriors to understand? When you stole my crown mid-battle, just to scold me for my pride, and I could only shake my head because, as always, you were right?
Do you remember, Madhav, that morning in Vrindavan, before the weight of kingdoms and war lay upon our shoulders? When I woke to the sound of your flute, its melody weaving through the golden light of dawn, and found you perched beneath a tree, eyes closed, utterly at peace? I had never envied anyone more than I did in that moment. You belonged to the world, yet you were entirely your own.
I had asked you, "Do you ever tire of always knowing more than the rest of us?"
And you had only smiled. "Do you ever tire of always striving to be more than yourself?"
I had scoffed, pretending to take offense, but we both knew the truth. You understood me better than I ever did myself.
Do you remember the battlefield, Madhav? When my hands trembled, my heart wavered, and you caught my wrist, steady as the earth itself? "I am here, Parth," you had said. And that was all I needed to fight.
And when you left- oh, Madhav, how did you expect me to stay? How was I to go on in a world where your laughter no longer rang in my ears, where your words did not pull me back from the abyss?
I have walked through fire, wielded my Gandiva against gods and men, lost my son, my kin, my very soul- but nothing, nothing, has ever undone me as much as your absence.
Will you be waiting for me at the end?
Arjun's breathing slowed, and he felt his strength all but vanish out of his once invincible body.
But 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.
Truly, he had stopped living the day his Madhav left him.
Because 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.
In the mountains, where he breathe his first, and now will breathe his last.
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.
The gleam of mischief in Nakul's eyes before a prank, the quiet steadiness in Sahadev's when he spoke truths no one else dared to say.
The warmth of Bhima's crushing embrace, the rare gentleness in Yudhishthira's touch when he wiped away his brothers' tears before shedding his own.
Abhimanyu, grinning, dimpled, bright as the sun itself, his little hands trying to pull the string of a bow far too large for him.
And then, there was Madhav.
Laughing beside him in Dwarka as they raced their chariots under the moonlight. Sitting by the ocean, speaking of things too vast even for warriors to comprehend. Catching his wrist in the midst of war, steadying him with nothing but the weight of his presence. His god. His very soul.
He had been so tired for so long.
His eyes fluttered open one last time. As the world around him blurred into light, a familiar voice, warm and teasing, cut through the silence.
"You just couldn't wait to see me again, Parth."
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~Swept Away ~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Arjun and Chitrangada story)
Disclaimer: This is a work of PURE FICTION. None of it has happened in the real epic. Also, THIS IS A WARNING- MATURE CONTENT EXPLICT SCENES AHEAD. Although it's my first time writing such a spicy story, I've tried my best to keep it subtle and... Idk, please let me know if it doesn't make sense. I think I'll stick to the comical stuff after this.
I really wanted soft boi Arjun with the ever commanding Chitrangada. I also need more Chitrangada stories, please recommend me some if there are any good ones. The portrayal of Chitrangada was inspired by a chapter from @desigurlie's lost moment- Upturned fates. Her work has always fueled my obsession✨
Again, WARNING- ⚠️⚠️⚠️MATURE CONTENT AHEAD⚠️⚠️⚠️-
He had commanded legions.
His name echoed across Aryavarta like a hymn of war and wonder.
He had crossed untamed lands, brought kings to their knees, and claimed victories that echoed through the ages.
Yet now, the very same man lay on silk, wrists loosely bound above his head: not by force, but by choice, his own choice.
His skin glistened, flushed, marked by her full mouth and her hands. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sandalwood, and the only sound was his breath: ragged, hungry, waiting.
It almost seemed like he was the inexperienced one.
Chitrangada stood at the edge of the bed, watching him like a predator watches its prize- not with cruelty, but with absolute control. Every part of her radiated authority. From the tilt of her chin to the slow, deliberate way she approached him; like she owned every inch of the room.
Every inch of him.
“Tell me what you want,” she said, voice low.
Arjun, turned to look at his lioness. Her skin, sun-kissed and battle-tested, glistened with sweat and shone rich bronze. Her strong arms, Oh how strong yet small against his own hands.
Her eyes, gods her eyes: dark as storm clouds, shaped like almonds. They held the clarity of someone who had seen both battlefield and betrayal, saw straight through armor and ego alike.
Her hair, long and raven-dark, was usually tied back, but when loosened, it fell like a warrior’s banner. Her very being the embodiment of power- grace woven into every stride, commanding in stillness, and utterly unafraid.
He smiled- not cocky, but soft, reverent. “You. However you want me, my queen.”
“Mine,” she said against his skin.
“Yes,” he breathed, arching into her. “Always.”
When her nails scraped down his arms and left blooming marks of possession, he gasped her name like prayer. Then, blinking up at her with those maddeningly amber eyes, he gave a crooked grin. "Should I be worried you’re branding me now, Rajkumari?"
Chitrangada arched an eyebrow, lips curving into something dangerously amused, "You're lucky I’m not carving my name into your chest."
Arjuna chuckled breathlessly, still pinned beneath her. "At least make the script neat. I have appearances to keep."
She didn’t move gently, she moved like a storm claiming the sea, fierce and beautiful, unstoppable. And Arjuna- her husband met her every motion with soft cries, body shaking beneath the woman who refused to let him disappear behind titles or legend
She crawled over him like a flame licking up dry wood, and he shuddered when her fingers traced the lines of his chest.
“You’re not afraid to give me control?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.
Arjuna met her eyes with that infuriating, intoxicating calm. “Chitra, my dearest, I’ve held the weight of kingdoms on my shoulders. But nothing feels heavier than your gaze when you choose me. I’d give you everything.”
He wasn’t afraid of surrendering to her: he thought of it as an honor.
She leaned down and bit gently at his lower lip, just enough to make him groan. “You’ll regret that.”
He chuckled, then gasped as her hands claimed him again. “Only if you stop.”
Then, she kissed him like war, like conquest, like she was here to take everything and leave him grateful.
Arjuna gasped against her lips as she pushed him down again: one hand against his chest, the other sliding his arms up above his head with purpose. Her thighs straddled his hips, bare and strong, the weight of her both grounding and dizzying.
“Chitra…” he breathed, but the rest of her name broke into a moan as her mouth moved to his throat.
Gods.
He had faced demons, kings, god- and yet nothing had ever left him so undone as this woman untying the knot at his waist with maddening ease.
She wasn’t gentle tonight. She was hungry.
Her husband- wielder of Gandiva, breaker of sieges- offered himself up without resistance. Not because he was weak, but because she was strong. And nothing aroused him more than watching her own it.
Her dark, obsidian hair, that had unfurled like a waterfall, created a curtain to cover their kisses and the slap of skin against skin.
“Keep your hands where they are,” she whispered. His muscles flexed with the effort not to move. He could easily take control. Flip her beneath him. Take the reins. But he didn’t want to, gods he didn’t.
He wanted her to have him.
She moved like a queen claiming what was hers, every roll of her hips purposeful, every sound she dragged from his throat another trophy. And he gave them willingly. He gave her everything.
Arjuna’s breath caught as her nails scraped down his chest. His eyes fluttered open just enough to see her above him- glowing in the lamplight, body curved in power, eyes consuming him.
“Look at you,” she whispered. “So beautiful like this. My prince. Mine.”
He couldn’t speak; his throat was a tangle of devotion and desperation. He only nodded, eyes glassy with pleasure, hands still bound above him.
She rode him like she knew the rhythm of his soul. When release came, it shattered him. Not violently- but reverently.
Like the sky cracking open to reveal light.
He collapsed beneath her, body trembling, mind blank, lips parted. When she finally untied his wrists, kissing them gently, he wrapped his arms around her and held her like she was the only anchor left in the world.
"Tell me, Arjuna," she said, her voice low and teasing, her eyes gleaming with amusement, "do you always let yourself be so... swept away? Or is it just when I’m the one leading you?"
Arjuna, still catching his breath, let out a soft chuckle, his head lolling slightly as he gazed up at her with a mix of exhaustion and admiration. His skin was flushed, and the faint traces of a smile played on his lips as he tried to find the energy to respond.
"Well," he said, voice raspy, yet playful, "I must admit... you’ve certainly got a way of leading me." His amber eyes twinkled as he lifted his hand lazily, brushing a lock of her hair from her face. "Though, if I’m being honest, I don’t need much convincing. I’m easily swept away, especially when I’m in such... good company."
Chitrangada raised an eyebrow, her smirk only growing as she leaned in closer. "Easily swept away, you say? I suppose that makes my job easier then."
Arjuna rolled his eyes dramatically, his tiredness catching up with him in waves, but the charm in his words never faltered. "Well, if this is what ‘swept away’ feels like, I think I could get used to it. Though I might need a bit more rest before I can do it all over again."
Chitrangada laughed softly, her gaze softening as she admired him. "Don’t worry, my hero," she teased, her hand resting against his chest. "You’ve earned your rest."
Arjuna sighed dramatically, letting his head fall back against the pillows, his exhaustion finally catching up to him. "I think I’ve earned everything," he muttered playfully, closing his eyes for a moment. "But I suppose... I could let you lead me again when I’m feeling up to it."
Chitrangada smiled at his words, leaning down to kiss his forehead, the soft affection in her gesture contrasting with the earlier fire. "Rest now, my prince. I’ll let you get back to your charming self... for now."
The One Who Holds My Reins
Oh Krishna, my dearest Madhav, I have seen my god in you- Your blue-hued gaze holding the vastness of the universe, The stars themselves moving at your silent command. Oh Keshava, my dearest Madhav, You weave fate with the flick of your wrist, Yet hold my reins with hands steady, patient, kind. You gather the shards of my broken mind, And in your embrace, I am whole again. I have heard your laughter, bright as rivers in spring, I have seen your stillness, deep as oceans before the storm. And now, I breathe your name- A prayer not spoken, but felt in the marrow of my soul. Hai Parameswara, Hai prabhu, You have lifted the veil from my eyes, Shown me dharma, my path, my truth. This war is no longer about me, my pride, my sorrow- It is the weight of the world, the will of time itself. Oh Janardana, father of the universe, In one breath, I bow down to you, Yet such is your simplicity, that in another breath- I can crumble into my sakha’s arms Oh Govinda, for your cause- I would shatter a thousand bows, a thousand destinies. And when the dust of war settles, When the echoes of battle fade into silence, It is not victory or defeat I will remember- But the chariot’s wheels turning beneath your steady hands, And the voice that called me back to myself.
picture from Pinterest
The road to penance
The forest thinned as Arjuna climbed, replaced by stone, frost, and sky. Trees gave way to rock, and then, rock gave way to snow. The air turned sharper, the wind colder, biting through his clothes and into his bones like old guilt.
He did not look back often. When he did, he saw only mist swallowing the trail behind him- thick and white and uncaring, as though the world itself had closed the door. Go on, it seemed to say. There is nothing for you behind.
By the third day, the silence was louder than any war cry. It crept into his ears, pressed against his ribs, filled his lungs until each breath became a question. He welcomed it. Silence did not ask why he hadn't spoken when the dice fell.
Silence did not ask why he had not torn the sabha down with his bare hands. Silence did not whisper: You are the archer who never missed, yet you missed the moment that mattered most.
He walked with those thoughts like ghosts at his side. And with the cold, always the cold. It was not just in the wind; it was in his blood, in the marrow of his bones, in the soft parts behind his eyes. It reminded him of the night Draupadi's laughter had gone quiet, and he'd sat outside their hut with his bow in his lap and nothing to shoot at but memory.
On the fifth night, he dreamed. No, not of war or fire or fate. Just Krishna: wild-eyed, grinning, sprinting barefoot through Satyaki's garden with a twelve-year-old Abhimanyu at his heels. That part was strange. He'd left his son when he was five. But in dreams, the boy had grown.
"Too slow, Abhi!" Krishna laughed, his beautiful curly hair flying, mango juice dripping down his chin.
"Mama! I had no shoes!" Abhimanyu shouted, brandishing a stick like a sword. "And you cheated!"
"All's fair in mangoes and mayhem, sweetheart." Arjuna laughed in his sleep. A rare, rusted sound. He actually even woke with a smile still caught in his throat. Thought it didn't last.
Because he remembered how Krishna had looked at him after the sabha. Not with anger. Not even with pity.
Just... sorrow, with a hole of disappointment. A quiet, soul-deep sorrow: as though he had failed, not Arjuna. As though he had given Arjuna the bow and watched him lay it down.
Then came the mountains. The real ones.
The ones where the wind was not the kind that whispered. It howled: an ancient, toothless cry that had clawed at these Himalayan cliffs long before kingdoms rose or dharma was spoken of in courtly verse. Arjuna bent his head against it, his breath ragged and clouding the thin air. The trail underfoot had long disappeared, buried beneath stubborn snow. Only the mountain remained: vast, unspeaking, indifferent.
He hadn't eaten in days. Not since he had crossed the last outpost of men and fire. Hunger had long since left behind the dull ache of need; now it gnawed at his spine, made his vision stutter. Yet he pressed on. Not as a warrior, just as a man trying to find stillness somewhere inside a body that would not stop trembling.
He did not speak. For there was no one to speak too, but also because words felt too loud in this place, too mortal. The silence was not absence- it was a presence, thick and echoing, forcing him to listen.
And so, it found him.
Shrutakarma, four years old, chasing him across a courtyard with a wooden bow and painted arrows, cheeks flushed with laughter, mimicking his father's stance with fearless delight. His brothers watching, chuckling at the youngest's theatrics.
Krishna's voice by firelight, warm with mischief: "You fight better when you're angry, Partha. But you lead better when you're calm."
Kunti's hand on his cheek before the exile, soft and worn. "You're still here," she had said. "You must let yourself be."
The memories struck without rhythm. Like stray arrows from nowhere.
And then the one that never missed. The sabha. The dice. Draupadi's cry. Bhima's fury. Yudhishthira's silence. And he-Arjuna. Partha. The archer whose aim was legend; had stood still.
Helpless... no, not helpless. Worse. He had been useless. All that strength, all that skill- and when it mattered, he had been a silent, watching coward clothed in gold and guilt.
No mountain wind could strip that memory away.
He stumbled. His knees struck the snow hard, sinking deep into the frozen crust. This time, he did not rise quickly; as the cold no longer bit, it seeped. Quietly. Thoroughly. A numbness that dulled not just skin, but thought. His fingers, that could easily lift the mighty Gandiva, had gone pale and unfeeling, curled stiffly at his sides.
He was not dressed for such heights. His garments, worn and travel-stained, were suited to forest shadows and monsoon rains- not to scale gods' shoulders. Frost clung to his long lashes like silver dust. The world tilted, weightless and white. Snow swallowed the sky and the earth alike. The only sound was his pulse; fluttering, fading, like the echo of a battle drum too far to reach.
He knelt there, a figure carved in stillness....
... and somewhere between sleep and death, he thought he saw fire.
A flicker of orange through the white; a distant warmth nestled between trees that shouldn't have been there. A grove where none had stood moments ago. Was it a memory? A trick of exhaustion? Or something older, something watching?
But he didn't crawl toward it. Not yet. Instead, something inside him stirred. A single thought: Get up.
Not for glory. Not for war. Not even for redemption. Just, get up.
This body may be broken by cold, but it was the same body trained to endure. To obey. To fight through pain until pain itself became silence.
He had trained in forests that tore at his skin, stood unmoving under waterfalls until the weight of it drove men to collapse. He had aimed arrows through lightning storms, focused past hunger, heat, and humiliation. When others had faltered, he had refined. Sharpened. Endured. So he walked.
Not because he was strongest. Not even because he was destined. But because he wanted to be better.
It was because he was Arjuna, and Arjuna would never stop walking.
So he breathed. Once. Twice. Ragged, shallow gasps. Then deeper. He forced the air into his chest like drawing a bow. Forced his limbs to move- shaking, clumsy, but moving.
The cold no longer defeated him; it forged him. The mind would adjust, the skin thickened, and his muscles would remember how to work even when they screamed.
He rose, not with grandeur but with grit: teeth clenched, eyes narrowed. He bent his will to the mountain.
One step. Then another.
He kept thinking: Somewhere- his fire awaited, somewhere- the gods watched.
Inside him, a flame sparked- a little smaller than a torch, a little stronger than death.
He crawled. Climbed. Walked.
At first, every movement was agony. The wind mocked him, tore at his garments, hissed in his ears like it meant to wear him down to nothing. His knees scraped over stone, fingers raw from catching himself against jagged ice.
Then eventually, His walk grew steadier. His spine straightened. His steps, no longer stumbles, became rhythm. The burn in his muscles dulled to a hum. Hunger faded into stillness. Cold into clarity. Until walking felt like breathing rather than a chore.
And only then, only when the mountain no longer seemed like a punishment but a presence, did he see it. The beauty.
Not in the grandeur alone- though the peaks stretched like ivory spires, and the clouds moved like silk across their crest- but in the silence between it all. In the hush after every step. In the way the stars unveiled themselves like old friends once the sun dipped behind the ridges. In how the earth, unmoved by empires or epics, simply was.
There was no battle here. No sabha. No war drums. Only a sky so vast it made his grief feel small. There was snow, soft enough to forgive. He walked in that silence for days, alone but no longer lost.
Then, at the twilight of the 23rd day, he found the boy.
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."
If it were a sport, I would be an Olympian✨
if indian dumb charades was a sport, I'd have 23482 gold medals in it
For the boy who was loved- Balarama POV
Balarama chuckled from his post beneath the tree. It was rare to see his brother-in-law like this: unguarded. Soft. He was always sharp-edged, always honed like a blade in Khandava's fire. Yet, it was not a rare sight in Dwarka or Indraprastha. Arjuna was always gentler around his brothers. His wives. His Krishna.
But with Abhimanyu, he was a different kind of gentle. With Abhimanyu, Arjuna melted- not like steel in flame, but like snow in morning light. There was no guard, no pride to uphold, no dharma too heavy to carry. Just a father, stretched out on sun-warmed stone, listening to his son ramble about horses and formations and the fastest way to take down an elephant from behind.
He watched as Arjuna scooped the boy into his arms and dropped to the ground with him in a heap of laughter and mud. "You'll make a fine warrior one day," Arjuna murmured, ruffling the boy's wet hair, "but you'll be even greater if you learn to smile through the battle."
"You'll be proud of me?" Abhimanyu asked, eyes wide.
Arjuna paused for a moment- then touched his forehead to his son's.
"My boy," he whispered, "proud would be too small a word."
He never forgot that moment.
Which is why, when the messenger arrived: dirt-caked and shaking, lips too dry to form the words...Balarama already knew.
The Archer Remade: The Parting- Sneak peek
“You gambled us away,” Bhima had roared days ago, chest heaving, eyes blazing with something Arjuna had never seen in him before- betrayal. “You gambled her. You gambled me, Jyestha. Say the word and I’ll thrust this hand into the fire. Let it burn. The same hand with which you wagered everything without asking!”
Yudhishthira had not flinched.
“Do it, Bhima. If that will bring her peace.”
It was not defiance. It was surrender.
But Bhima’s fury had collapsed into grief. He had stood, trembling, knuckles white with restraint. Then he turned and walked out into the night.
I'm writing a new story! Yayyy!!! The draft is finally complete!!! A peek to the first chapter :)
Bed of Arrows
Oh, Father, the greatest of Kurus, The child you left became a shield; A shield of iron, cold and strong, Unbreakable, unbending steel. Yet here I lie, surrounded by blood and rusted fate.
I am nothing but my pride, A river’s son, a kingdom’s guard. All my life, I lived for you, Oh, tell me, Father, did you see me rise?
I rest upon this blood-soaked land, Between the earth and endless sky. A bed of arrows; his gift of war, Yet no softer place have I ever known.
I count the stars, I count their eyes- The faces of my grandsons blur. One by one, they slip like sand, And soon, I shall join them all.
I do not fear death, Amba, But I fear your gaze when I meet you beyond. Will you still burn with rage? Or will we, at last, understand?
Oh, how I have sinned, my gods… My Putravadhu, my Putri Draupadi- The day she fell, my pride was lost. The taste of water turned to ash, The sound of music- only screams.
The throne I upheld, yet never touched, The vows I kept, yet none kept me. A guardian sworn to serve, to stand- Yet shackled fast,was I ever free?
The student of the great Parashurama, My sword rose for kings, for wars, For justice that was never mine. The hands that shaped a nation's fate, Now tremble—not from time, But from the injustices I saw, yet chose to bear.
And now, the boy I used to train, With tear-stained eyes kneels at my side. His hands, once firm, now shake in grief, His heart, always soft, now torn inside.
Oh, Arjuna, my dearest son, You weep for me, but do not mourn. For even kings must meet the dust, And I am just a warrior waiting, for rest.
Oh father mine, my end is near
The sun will turn, the world will change, This age of war will fade with time. But as I go, one question remains- My life was theirs… yet was it ever mine?
Mahabharata – The Fall of the Hero – Bhishma by Giampaolo Tomassetti
Arjuna: 3, Yadavas: 0- Mahabharat crack fic Series Part III
It was a bright afternoon in Dwarka, the sun hanging lazily in the sky, mirroring the way Krishna and Arjuna lounged on the shaded steps overlooking the field. A group of Yadavas lounged under the shade of a marble pavilion, their laughter echoing as they watched what had now become a familiar sight: Satyaki challenging Arjuna- a weekly occurrence
Krishna, reclining against a pillar, plucked at a blade of grass. Arjuna, sitting beside him with one knee drawn up, absentmindedly twirled a training arrow between his fingers.
"You do realize, Parth, that they won't stop until one of them beats you?" Krishna said, amusement dancing in his voice.
Arjuna let out a small chuckle. "And when has that ever happened?"
Krishna laughed, shaking his head. Below them, Satyaki was stretching his arms, rolling his shoulders with exaggerated confidence. Pradyumna and Samba stood on either side of him, whispering among themselves. The younger Yadavas: brothers, cousins, and warriors-in-training- all gathered around, eager to watch.
“They’re plotting,” Krishna remarked, watching the trio below with a knowing glint in his eyes.
Arjuna sighed, shaking his head. "They always do."
Krishna grinned. “And yet, you continue to indulge them.”
Arjuna turned to him, his expression softening just a little. "Let them dream, Madhav. They are young. It is good for them to believe, even for a moment, that they stand a chance."
Krishna hummed in agreement, a smile tugging at his lips. "And do you ever let them win?"
Arjuna smirked. "Nope."
Before Krishna could reply, below them, Satyaki called out, “Come on, Parth! Let’s see if you can still keep up with me.”
A chorus of cheers and laughter rose from the assembled warriors, all eager for the spectacle. Pradyumna and Samba stood just behind him, pretending not to be involved but clearly far too eager.
Arjuna sighed dramatically and rose to his feet. " Very well, Yuyudhana. Let’s not keep your admirers waiting.”
He rose, stretching with elegance that made even something as simple as standing up look like an art. Krishna followed lazily, clearly in no rush to interfere.
The younger Yadavas whispered among themselves. “Satyaki might actually win this time,” one said.
“He’s faster now,” another added.
Krishna stifled a laugh. "They have so much faith in Satyaki, don't they?" Arjuna shook his head in mild exasperation before stepping forward. "Come then, my friend. Show me what you've learned."
The wrestling match had barely begun when Satyaki, brimming with confidence, lunged at Arjuna.
It might have worked… if Arjuna weren’t Arjuna.
Satyaki lunged, fast and strong- but against Arjuna, fast and strong were never enough.
With an almost casual movement, Arjuna sidestepped at the last moment, caught Satyaki’s arm, and redirected his force mid-air.
THUD…
Satyaki landed flat on his back, staring up at the sky, the breath knocked out of him. The watching onlookers winced.
From the steps, Krishna called out, “That looked graceful, Satyaki. Do you need a moment?”
Satyaki groaned. “I-I'm fine.”
Pradyumna folded his arms. "That looked painful."
Samba grinned. "Not as painful as what we’re about to do."
Before Arjuna could even turn around, the two young Yadava princes pounced.
Samba went for his legs while Pradyumna leapt for his shoulders. A sound strategy, against anyone else that is.
Arjuna, without so much as a frown, shifted his weight at the perfect moment. He caught Pradyumna mid-air with one arm and smoothly stepped aside- causing Samba to charge forward into thin air.
Samba, unable to stop in time, crashed straight into Satyaki.
“Off! Get off me, you little menace!” Satyaki groaned.
Arjuna, meanwhile, glanced down at Pradyumna, still held securely in his grip, like a father humoring an impatient son. “You seem troubled, Yuvraj,” Arjuna mused, his voice smooth as silk.
Pradyumna glared, red-faced, struggled in his grip. "Put me down, uncle!"
Arjuna smiled. "Oh? But you seemed eager to climb me a moment ago."
Samba, tangled with Satyaki, cackled. “He got you there.”
Pradyumna, refusing to lose face, latched onto Arjuna’s arm and refused to let go. Samba, never one to miss an opportunity, grabbed onto his other side.
Satyaki, deciding that this was the perfect time for revenge, lunged at Arjuna’s back.
It was three against one.
For anyone else, this would have been a fight.
For Arjuna? With a single, almost lazy shift of movement, he broke Samba and Pradyumna’s grip, twisted, and let Satyaki’s own momentum carry him forward- straight into the dirt. The three Yadavas collapsed in a heap, groaning. Dust flew everywhere.
Arjuna dusted off his sleeves, completely unruffled. He turned to Krishna, who was watching with clear amusement.
"Was that entertaining enough for you, Govind?"
Krishna chuckled. "It was brief but enjoyable. I did warn them."
Satyaki, still sprawled on the ground, glared up at Arjuna. "I will win one day."
Arjuna smiled fondly. "I admire your optimism, Yuyudhana."
Pradyumna, patting away all the dust from his being, muttered defeatly, “I hate him.”
Arjuna turned to him with genuine warmth in his eyes. "I know you don’t, Pradyumna. But do tell me when you’re ready to train again, I will teach you how to be better."
Pradyumna, despite himself, looked away, the irritation in his expression replaced by something almost begrudgingly respectful.
Samba, still grinning, clapped Arjuna on the back. “You’re annoying, but I like you.”
Arjuna let out a soft laugh and mussed Samba’s hair like an elder brother. "Likewise, little prince."
Krishna, watching the exchange, smiled knowingly. "You see, Parth? They admire you more than they admit."
Arjuna sighed, shaking his head with a fond smile. "They will be the end of me one day, Madhav."
Krishna laughed. "Then you’ll have to stay undefeated, won’t you?"
And with that, the three bruised, exhausted Yadavas stood once more- ready, even in their defeat, to challenge Arjuna again another day.
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