Draupadi

CHAPTER XII (edited)

"Do not mistake silence for consent, nor softness for weakness. I have always been fire — and fire asks no permission to burn."

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I was laughing with my husbands, their banter weaving like music around me, when I saw him.

Pitamaha.

Bhishma, the grandsire of the Kuru line — their guardian, their betrayer, their eternal riddle. My husbands' faces tightened with unease at his approach, but I felt only resolve. If they would not claim their place, then I would.

I rose. The anklets at my feet chimed like a challenge. He heard them. He did not look. His silence was deliberate, but I had no intention of being invisible.

I stood before him and bowed. "O Pitamaha, great-grandfather to my lords, bless us."

His voice, when it came, was cold steel. "With what courage do you ask for blessings, girl? Where was your dharma when you consented to this deed? Did your father not teach you shame?"

The words sliced, but I met them with fire.

"Forgive me, Pitamaha, but our marriage was sanctified by Ved Vyasa himself. In the Puranas I have read of Jatila, the virtuous woman of the Gotama race, wedded to seven rishis. And of the daughter born of a tree, who became wife to the ten Prachetas brothers. Was that not dharma, too? My father did not raise me in ignorance, but in knowledge — knowledge as extraordinary as the births of all his children."

For the first time, the mask of serenity shifted on his face. He had not expected resistance.

I pressed forward, my words spilling like arrows. "Pitamaha, my husbands have been orphaned of love since childhood. They are men who hold loyalty like breath itself, who cherish every hand that dares to hold them. Do not turn from them. Do not deny them. We are not five and one, but six bound as one soul. If you must bless us, then bless that truth."

And then—Bhishma smiled. Faint, reluctant, but real. I bowed, the victory hidden in my lowered gaze, and returned to my husbands.

They had heard. Their faces, so often shadowed, now shone with something lighter. They laughed again, slapping each other's backs, teasing as only brothers can. I watched them with new eyes: their love for one another, their shared wounds, their stubborn joy. Perhaps it was this brotherhood that had carried them through the years.

Yudhishthira turned to me then, his smile rare and unburdened. "You are a woman of fine judgment, Kalyani. Your father raised you well."

The endearment startled me more than his praise. My lips formed a quiet "thank you," though my heart beat far louder.

At once Arjuna and Nakula dissolved into laughter. "Brother, you are stiff as a bowstring," Arjuna teased.

"No wonder women never spared you a glance," Nakula added, eyes gleaming.

Bhima smirked. "Even Sahadeva is smoother than you."

"What? Me?" Sahadeva sputtered, scandalized, which only drew more laughter.

Then Nakula, ever the peacock, leaned close, lowering his voice. His hand brushed mine as he murmured, "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. And wise. A rare jewel, Paanchali. We are blessed in you."

Heat surged up my throat, though I masked it with stillness. My skin, dark as earth after rain, hid the flush I felt rising. But within me, my heart trembled, though I would not show it. For even queens are not immune to beauty — and Nakula, son of the Ashvins, bore enough to undo a thousand vows.

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