The illusionist [Mahabharat] [Slow Updates] [Under Editing]

3.

A wave of exhilaration swept through Hastinapura as news of Kunti and the Pandavas' arrival spread. The Kuru lineage, fractured for years, seemed whole once more. Yet, beneath the joyous facade, a disquieting undercurrent pulsed.

For the Pandavas, the grand city was a bewildering spectacle. Raised in the austere embrace of the forest, the opulent palace with its gilded halls and silken tapestries was a world away from their simple huts. An innocent hope bloomed in their hearts – a hope for acceptance, for a place to belong.

But from a secluded rooftop, a pair of hostile eyes watched their arrival. Duryodhana, his youthful face marred by a nascent suspicion, stood beside his cunning maternal uncle, Shakuni. The Gandharva prince, a master manipulator, wasted no time in planting seeds of doubt.  "They come to take your birthright, putr," he hissed, his words dripping with venom.

Down below, a more formal drama unfolded. Dhritarashtra, his sightless eyes clouded with a complex mix of emotions, stood beside his blindfolded wife, Gandhari. Kunti, her face etched with a lifetime of hardships, approached them. A tense silence hung in the air as the two women, bound by an unspoken sorrow, embraced. Gandhari's touch lingered on Kunti's unbound hair, a silent reminder of the price they both paid for their husbands' desires.

Vidura, ever the voice of reason, broke the awkwardness. "Princes," he addressed the bewildered Pandavas, "pay your respects to your Pitamah and tatshree , and your mothers."

The young princes, their faces a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, bowed at Bhishma's feet. The old warrior, seeing echoes of his deceased brother Pandu in their features, fought back a surge of grief. One by one, they touched the feet of Dhritarashtra and Gandhari. Gandhari, her voice thick with emotion, blessed them, while Dhritarashtra's expression remained an enigma.

The fiver brother touched the feet of pitamah who hugged them all, finding glimpses of young pandu in them. He struggled to hold back his tears. The boys then touched the feet of their tatshree and jyesth mata gandhari. Gandhari caressed their cheeks and blessed them happily.

The Pandavas, unaccustomed to the opulent trappings of palace life, fidgeted in their new finery. Silken clothes, once a novelty, now felt restrictive, the weight of jewels an unwelcome burden.  Perhaps this was fate, but a bitter taste lingered in their mouths. These clothes, once donned, would become their identity, a constant reminder of their exile's end.

A maidservant, her movements practiced and efficient, led them to the dining hall. There, amidst a cacophony of chatter and the clatter of cutlery, sat a hundred and one Kaurava princes. The Pandavas' arrival caused a hush to fall, a weighty silence more unsettling than boisterous greetings.

Only one figure broke the tense silence. A slender boy, shorter than the others, rose from his seat and approached them with a warm smile. "Welcome, Bhratashree! I am Yuyutsu," he said, his voice genuine. "I am delighted you are finally here."

The Pandavas returned the smile, relief washing over them. Here, at least, was a shred of kindness. But before they could respond, Duryodhana's voice, laced with annoyance, cut through the air.

"Enough pleasantries! Do any of you require a formal invitation to sit?" His gaze swept over them, a challenge glinting in his eyes. "Don't you know your place is in that corner?" He gestured with a sneer towards the farthest end of the hall, isolated from the rest.

A wave of anger flushed Nakul's face, mirrored by his brothers (except Yudhisthira, who remained composed).  "Why must we sit separately?" Nakul demanded, his voice tight.

Duryodhana threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Because I say so," he replied, his tone dripping with arrogance.  "I am the crown prince, Duryodhana, and this is how things will be done in my palace."