Man Mohini | {ON HOLD}

Chapter 8

They all returned to the forest hut in silence. The five brothers cast worried glances at Mohini, unable to fathom what had suddenly disturbed her. Only moments ago, she had been smiling, radiant with joy, and now a cloud of sorrow had enveloped her face.

Among them, Nakul’s heart was heaviest. Concern pricked him, but guilt gnawed at him more cruelly. He had not bought her anything. Every one of his brothers had returned from the market carrying gifts for her, tokens of affection to brighten her day. Jyeshth Yudhishthir had brought her bangles of polished bronze, glimmering faintly in the afternoon sun. Bhima had purchased earrings delicate, shimmering with a charm as bold as his love. Arjuna, ever the warrior, had offered her a small dagger; what use was that to her, when she was surrounded by protectors as fierce as lions? And little Sahadeva had gifted her anklets that would sing softly with each step she took.

But Nakul he had nothing. His hands were empty, and now, shame welled inside him like a bitter poison. Why had he not thought of her happiness?

Mohini, meanwhile, felt her own guilt twisting sharply. She knew they had all been so eager, so excited to bring her joy. Yet she had ruined the day for them. The shopping, the laughter, the lightness of their mood it had all crumbled because of her sudden grief.

Her eyes blurred. She tried to blink back the tears, but they slid down regardless, hot and unyielding. She turned her face slightly away, hoping no one would notice, but Bhima’s watchful gaze caught her trembling shoulders. In an instant, he was at her side.

“Bacche, what happened?” he asked, his deep voice raw with worry.

Mohini looked up, startled, only to find the eyes of all five brothers fixed on her, their expressions etched with concern. Desperate, she tried to wipe her tears away, but her hands betrayed her the tears kept flowing, falling faster than she could chase them.

And then, she broke.

With a soft cry, she flung herself into Bhima’s arms, clinging to him as though he were her only anchor in a storm. Startled, he gathered her up, lifting her easily as she wrapped her legs around his waist, sobbing against his broad chest. He cradled her as tenderly as one would cradle an infant, rocking her gently.

“It’s all right, Mohini,” he whispered, his voice breaking with each attempt at comfort. “Shh… don’t cry, child. Everything will be fine. I promise, it will be fine.”

But Mohini could not stop. The sorrow was too deep, too sharp.

At last, the storm of her tears wore her down. Exhaustion claimed her, and she drifted into uneasy sleep in Bhima’s arms, her face streaked with tears. He carried her back to the hut, his brothers walking in silence beside him, each weighed down by unspoken thoughts.

When they entered, Kunti looked up from where she was cooking. A soft smile touched her lips upon seeing them, but it faded quickly as her eyes landed on the sleeping Mohini.

“What happened, putra?” she asked, her voice filled with motherly concern.

“We do not know, Ma,” Yudhishthir replied gravely. “On the way back from the market, she suddenly began to cry.”

Kunti’s brow furrowed, but her voice remained gentle. “Lay her down to rest, children. Do not trouble her further. Come and eat.”

The brothers nodded, though their hearts were heavy. Bhima laid Mohini carefully upon her bedding. She slept soundly, her face soft, unburdened for the moment, like that of a child who had known no sorrow. Bhima’s gaze lingered on her, unwilling to leave, until Kunti called to him again.

“Bheem, child, come eat.”

Reluctantly, he rose and joined his brothers at the meal, though none of them had much appetite.