"To enter a palace is easy. To belong in one is war."
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Hastinapur.
The city rose before me, a vision of order and power carved in stone and gold. And yet, for all its polished grandeur, I found myself yearning for the heart of Paanchal — the laughter in its courtyards, the simplicity of its temples, the unpolished joy of its people. Here, in Hastinapur, everything gleamed. But nothing breathed.
The people of Paanchal had welcomed us like a prayer answered. The people of Hastinapur stared as though we had brought ruin with our footsteps.
Inside the palace, light struck against jeweled walls and mirrored floors until it felt less like a home and more like a cage. Still, a part of me ached to see the Ganga — the river that birthed their grandsire, the river that had whispered to me in childhood stories.
What I had expected unfolded precisely. The king, hollowed by blindness of both eye and will, did not welcome us. The queen, her blindfold wound tighter than duty demanded, told us we had stained their lineage with our unrighteousness. I let her words fall against me like hailstones against rock. Shikhandi's voice echoed in my mind: Do not let their venom find a place in your blood, Krishnaa. Watch their faces, not their words.
So I did.
Duryodhan's smirk twitched like a blade barely sheathed. Shakuni's eyes slithered with satisfaction. Gandhari, veiled in her own darkness, seemed carved from sorrow and silk. And Bhishma — silver hair, silver robes, and silence — chose to fold his dignity in the wrong direction.
We were shown to our rooms — five chambers circling a private hall, as though intimacy could stitch over insult. My husbands' thoughts were tangled in politics and pain; conversation felt like trying to step across a river of silence.
It was then that I remembered Dhri. You must be their strength, Paanchali. Even when they forget to look at you, you must remind them you are here.
So I asked, lightly, "Will you take me to the Ganga?"
Surprise flickered in their eyes, but as I had hoped, it pulled them from their heaviness. Yudhishthira adjusted his shawl, and together we walked into the night until the air smelled of water and wind.
We sat upon the steps of a temple, closed and silent, while the river hummed its eternal song. We spoke of Ganga, mother of the grandsire, her story written in flood and sacrifice. Then, as silence crept back, Nakula broke it with mischief.
"Paanchali," he said, eyes dancing, "do you know what my angavastra is made of?"
I blinked. "Silk... is it not?"
He grinned. "No. Husband material."
The others groaned. Bhima raised his hand, half in jest, as though to cuff him. Yudhishthira sighed. But laughter spilled between them nonetheless, shaking loose the shadows that had clung since our arrival.
As for me — I felt heat climb my face, a warmth I had never known. Their teasing unsettled me, yet softened the ache inside. And for a fleeting moment, under the moonlit gaze of the river, I let myself believe that even here, amidst taunts and rejection, there could be laughter.
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Hope you liked this chapter. Please read vote and comment. This chapter is a bit simple.
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Draupadi
Narrativa Storica--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dharma was the cloth I held closest. I was draped in dharma. No one could ever take that from me. No amount of pu...
