I Lost A 6k Word Story Draft That Took Me A Week To Write...
I lost a 6k word story draft that took me a week to write...
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Shakuni Mama aur Shraapit Seedhiyan- Mahabharat crack fic Series Part I
The halls of Hastinapura had seen countless battles, both in the court and on the training grounds. They had witnessed the thunderous steps of warriors, the hushed whispers of conspiracies, and the resounding laughter of carefree princes. But on this particular afternoon, the halls bore witness to something truly unforgettable-something that would go unspoken in formal gatherings but live on in the hearts (and suppressed laughter) of the Kuru princes for years to come.
It all started, as many disasters did, with Bhima.
The young Pandava, already a force of nature at his age, had just been dismissed from his lessons along with his brothers and cousins. The elders-Bhishma, Guru Drona, and Shakuni-were leading the way down the long, grand staircase that connected the higher halls to the central court. It was a staircase worthy of its royal residents: steep, wide, and polished to a near-miraculous shine by the tireless palace attendants.
And, as it turned out, far too polished.
Bhima, unwilling to walk like a normal human being, decided to sprint up the last few steps. Why? No one knew. Perhaps he was racing an imaginary opponent. Perhaps he had just remembered that lunch was being served soon. Perhaps he was simply Bhima.
Regardless of his reasons, the results were catastrophic.
The moment Bhima reached the top, his sandal betrayed him. It slipped-a treacherous, traitorous little movement that sent his foot skidding out from under him. The great warrior-to-be flailed, arms windmilling, desperately grasping for anything to steady himself.
Fate, ever the mischievous force, provided him with something.
Shakuni’s cloak.
For a brief, glorious second, Shakuni was not a man.
He was a spectacle.
One moment, he had been walking with his usual air of practiced elegance, his fine robes flowing behind him as he engaged Bhishma in conversation. The next moment-he was airborne.
His feet lifted clean off the ground, his arms flailed, and his mouth opened-but no words came out, only a stunned, undignified gasp. His turban, that ever-present symbol of his regal composure, tilted precariously to one side.
And then, gravity remembered him.
Shakuni descended.
Not gracefully. Not heroically. Not with the composed dignity of a statesman. No, he rolled.
His long cloak, the very thing that had betrayed him, tangled around his legs, turning what might have been a simple fall into a grand, tragic performance. His staff, once held with the poise of a master strategist, clattered ahead of him, announcing his descent like a herald announcing a king’s arrival-except this king was tumbling helplessly down a flight of stairs.
First, he lurched forward. Then, he twisted midair. Then-thump, thump, thump-down he went, step by step, his arms flapping wildly in a last, desperate attempt to regain control of his fate.
The grand staircase of Hastinapura had never seen such an event before.
And it would never, ever see one like it again.
At the top of the stairs, the young Kuru princes froze.
This was a moment of great crisis.
Not because Shakuni might be injured-no, that was secondary. The real crisis was not laughing.
Duryodhana and Arjuna made the fatal mistake of looking at each other. Their expressions, which had started as carefully composed masks of concern, cracked immediately.
Nakula and Sahadeva stood as still as statues, the effort of holding back their laughter written all over their faces. Sahadeva was biting his tongue. Nakula’s shoulders were trembling.
And Yudhishthira-oh, poor Yudhishthira-looked as though he was suffering the torments of the gods themselves. His hands were clenched into fists, pressed against his mouth as he struggled desperately to maintain some semblance of dignity. His eyes were wide, pleading with the heavens for strength.
And Bhima?
Bhima, the root cause of this disaster, was trying to be the responsible one. He stepped forward, schooling his expression into what he probably thought was a look of deep concern.
“Shakuni Mama,” he said, in a voice that was just a little too strained, “are you well?”
It was a valiant attempt.
Unfortunately, his voice cracked halfway through.
The effort to suppress their laughter reached its breaking point. Duryodhana’s lips twitched. Arjuna coughed violently. Nakula turned away, pretending to examine a very interesting section of the wall.
The entire hall was silent.
The ministers, the soldiers, the attendants-everyone was holding their breath.
Bhishma, ever the composed patriarch, stroked his beard and nodded thoughtfully, as though he had just witnessed a fascinating philosophical lesson unfold before him. Guru Drona, to his credit, maintained his usual impassive expression, though his fingers twitched ever so slightly.
And then-Shakuni rose.
The fallen prince of Gandhara stood, slowly and shakily.
With the precision of a man who refused to acknowledge what had just happened, he adjusted his turban, straightened his robes, and calmly dusted off his shoulders.
Then, in a voice so controlled it could have been carved from stone, he declared:
“I am perfectly fine, mere bachche”
He paused.
Then, with a pointed look at the offending staircase, he added, “The stairs, however, are treacherous.”
Silence.
And then, Bhishma, in his infinite wisdom, gave a sage nod.
“Indeed,” he said gravely. “The stairs are quite polished.”
The princes lost their battle.
Yudhishthira turned away, his entire body shaking. Duryodhana let out a strangled noise that could have been a cough-or a suppressed howl of laughter. Nakula buried his face in his sleeve. Sahadeva looked like he had physically left his body to avoid the disgrace.
And Bhima?
Bhima covered his mouth, his shoulders heaving.
Shakuni, either unwilling or unable to acknowledge the suffering of his audience, simply gathered what was left of his pride and walked away.
He did not stalk off in anger. He did not rage or scowl. He merely left, as if nothing had happened, as if his descent down the grand staircase of Hastinapura had been a deliberate choice-an elegant, calculated maneuver.
But from that day on, the young Kuru princes knew.
And every time Shakuni passed by, if Bhima happened to look at him for just a little too long-
Bhima would cough.
And immediately pretend to be deeply, deeply interested in something else.
How does one make their Wattpad story look so pretty?? Also any Arjun-centric stories I can read???
Help me. My stories just look dull, and I, for the love of god, can't find good photos or anything to make it more pretty.
Please give me suggestions. How do I make my work more pretty? Also should I shift to ao3? I've never used it but it intrigues me.
Also, are there any good Arjuna-centric stories or fics I can read? My mind is in a block these days and I wish I could read some stories to restart my mind?
"Kya hai Zindagi"
It's the question "Violence" and the answer is Yes.
I'm quite new to tumblr and REALLY I don't know how things work (I hope this is replying to you and not going into a void) but yes the answer is yes (most times)
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.
A silence passed. Then Sahadeva smiled at him: warm, resolute. And just like that, Arjuna was struck. It was the same smile: unchanged, yet completely transformed. He remembered it from a lifetime ago, from when Sahadeva had barely reached his waist, toddling after him in the gardens of Shatasringa with sticky fingers and wide, eager eyes. That same quiet confidence, tucked behind innocence back then. Now it was sharpened with wisdom, with hurt, with years they should not have had to live through.
His baby brother. All grown now. Steady. Reliable. Speaking words that could anchor the drifting.
A breath hitched in Arjuna’s chest. A memory flickered- small hands tugging at his bowstring, soft laughter echoing through marble corridors, a tiny voice asking, “Will I be like you one day, Dada?”
He blinked, and that child was gone. In his place stood a man: weathered, watchful, fierce in his quiet love.
A tremble touched his voice. “When did you grow so much?”
Sahadeva simply said, “While you were carrying all of us.”
Arjuna had no reply to that. Only the weight of gratitude, guilt, and the ache of time’s quiet theft.
So he stepped forward, pulled Sahadeva into his arms, and pressed his forehead gently to his youngest brother’s temple: just like he used to, when thunder kept the child awake. His Chandan tilak brushed against Sahadeva’s skin, faint and fragrant- as though Arjuna were leaving a piece of his soul behind, tucked in the hollow of his brother’s being. And for a moment, the world softened around them again.
“We’ll keep this family breathing until you return. Trust me.” Sahadeva whispered. “Trust me.”
तुम नमक नहीं चंदन हो कवि तुम तिलक हमारे माथे का
You are not salt but chandan, poet. You are the tilak of my forehead.
Damn bruh, if someone told me this, I would be in tears... what a beautiful line
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.
Merchants of Dwarka
As the sun cast long golden streaks over the docks, Arjuna’s gaze fell upon a spice merchant deep in negotiation. The man was draped in a simple yet fine cotton shawl, his fingers adorned with rings-not ostentatious, but the kind that spoke of wealth gained through years of trade. Before him stood a customer, a lean man with keen eyes, gesturing toward a sack of cinnamon sticks.
“This is not quality,” the buyer said, shaking his head. “These are thin and brittle. I can get better ones from the southern traders for half your price.”
The merchant sighed, rubbing his forehead as if exhausted. “Ah, my friend, you wound me. Do you take me for a liar?” He reached into the sack, pulled out a cinnamon stick, and snapped it in half. A rich, warm aroma filled the air. “Do you smell that? The deep scent, the color-this is the finest from Malaya.”
The buyer frowned, clearly reluctant to concede. “Even if that is so, your price is too high.”
The merchant smiled knowingly. “And yet, here you are, still bargaining.”
Arjuna watched, intrigued. There was a battle happening here-one of words, patience, and careful maneuvering. The merchant was neither aggressive nor desperate. He simply stood firm, confident in the value of his goods.
Arjuna stepped closer, deciding to test the man himself. “You seem very sure of your price,” he said.
The merchant turned, taking in Arjuna’s attire-simple yet unmistakably fine. He studied his face a moment longer before smiling. “Ah, a new customer! And one with the curiosity of a scholar. Tell me, prince, what do you seek?”
Arjuna raised a brow but said nothing about being recognized. “Tell me instead-how do you always know when a buyer will return?”
The merchant’s eyes twinkled. “Because people are predictable. A man who truly thinks something is overpriced will walk away. But a man who stays to argue?” He chuckled. “He wants it. He just doesn’t want to admit it.”
Arjuna smirked. “So, you play a game of patience.”
“Patience, my lord,” the merchant said, “and knowledge. A warrior studies his enemy, does he not? I study my buyers. See that man over there?” He nodded toward a richly dressed trader examining silk. “He will buy, but not until I let him believe he has won a bargain. And that woman?” He gestured toward a lady running her fingers over a set of ivory bangles. “She values rarity. I will not offer her a discount-but I will tell her they are the last of their kind.”
Arjuna exhaled, impressed. “You know people well.”
“A merchant must.” The man clasped his hands together. “And so must a prince.”
Arjuna glanced at Krishna, who, as expected, was smiling as if he had planned this encounter all along.
“Tell me, prince,” the merchant continued, his tone now playful. “If you were to buy from me, how would you bargain?”
Arjuna considered the question. A test.
He picked up a handful of black peppercorns from a nearby basket, rolling them between his fingers. “These-how much for a measure?”
The merchant named his price without hesitation.
Arjuna gave a thoughtful hum. “I hear the traders from the east have brought fresher stock. Their pepper is larger, stronger in taste.”
The merchant did not waver. “Then you should buy from them.”
“But your stall is closer,” Arjuna countered, watching the man carefully. “And I do not wish to walk that far. Perhaps if your price were more reasonable…”
The merchant chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, you bargain well. But if I lower my price, what will that say of my goods? That they are worth less? No, prince. I will not cheapen them.”
Arjuna studied him for a moment before nodding in approval. “Then you are a merchant of worth.”
The man grinned. “And you, a buyer of wisdom.” He took a small handful of peppercorns and pressed them into Arjuna’s palm. “A gift. For the lesson you let me teach.”
Arjuna inclined his head in gratitude, then turned to Krishna, who had been quietly observing. “Did I pass your test?”
Krishna only laughed. “Parth, the lessons of life do not come with scores. Only experience.”
Arjuna shook his head, suppressing a smile. He had learned something valuable today-words and patience could win battles just as surely as steel. And perhaps, if he ever found himself in another kind of war, the lessons of Dwarka’s merchants would serve him well.
Echos of a life lived- More thoughts
The mountain had taken the last thing he had left-his pride in himself.
Yudhishthira will not turn back for me.
The thought should have angered him. It did not.
He is still walking. Still moving forward.
Perhaps that was how it was meant to be. Yudhishthira had always been ahead of him, carrying burdens none of them could fathom. He would make it to the gates of heaven. He deserved to.
Arjuna had never been meant to reach the end, and maybe that was alright.
Because for all his regrets, for all his failures, he had also lived.
He had lived in the rush of battle, in the whisper of bowstrings, in the heat of the chase. He had lived in stolen moments, in Draupadi’s gaze, in Krishna’s laughter, in the arms of his children. He had lived in love and rage, in grief and triumph.
And now, he was falling.
But he was not afraid.
The sky blurred into the earth, the wind howled in his ears, and Arjuna- Pandava, warrior, brother, father- closed his eyes.
And let go.
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.
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