संगर्ष (Saṅgharṣa)

अम्बा: Amba - Vengeance

The wronged princess of Kashi.

Thwarted by the only man she ever loved.

She would never forget the moment. The moment she moved forward to garland Shalva, only cut short by the thundering hooves of Ganga's youngest.

She would never forget how Bhishma ruined her swayamvara within minutes, shoving Shalva aside cruelly while single handedly decimating any prince that made a move to protect her and her sisters from getting abducted by a man who had vowed never to marry.

Bhishma was going to tie them off to his step brother, a man neither of them knew of at all. 

He ruined the future she had planned- her and Shalva's future.

The only thing that mattered to her now was vengeance. 

She would destroy Bhishma.

 Shalva, wounded in body and pride, had turned his back on her, scorning her as if the abduction had tainted her beyond redemption. The love she had nurtured, the dreams she had woven, all shattered in the face of cruel reality. 

"You've been abducted by Bhishma, for God's sake!" he had said, running his hand through his hair. "You can't just come running back to me, not after he defeated me!"

"But, Shalva," she pleaded, tears falling from her eyes. "I love you and you love me, isn't that beyond your pride?"

Shalva's eyes, once filled with affection, now hardened into cold stone as he looked at her. His lips twisted into a bitter smile, a reflection of the pain and anger festering within him. "Love?" he scoffed, his voice laced with contempt. "What good is love when my honor has been trampled underfoot? When the whole world knows that Bhishma took you as if I were nothing more than a child playing at war?"

Amba's heart broke a little more with each word, her tears flowing freely as she reached out to him. "Shalva, I had no choice! Bhishma took us all by force. But I came back to you, didn't I? That should mean something. It should prove that my heart belongs only to you!"

But Shalva pulled away, his jaw clenched tight, refusing to meet her eyes. "You don't understand, Amba. It's not just about love. It's about what people will say, what they'll think. If I accept you now, after Bhishma defeated me and took you, they'll say I'm weak, that I couldn't protect what was mine. I can't live with that."

"Is that all I am to you?" Amba cried, her voice cracking with desperation. "A trophy to prove your strength? What about the promises we made, the future we dreamed of together?"

He finally looked at her, but there was no warmth in his gaze, only a deep, festering wound that would never heal. "That future died the moment Bhishma laid his hands on you. The man I was before—he's gone, Amba. I can't be him anymore, and I can't be with you. Not like this."

Amba felt her world crumble around her.

And she blamed Bhishma for it.

Bhishma, with his cold, unyielding eyes, his sense of duty that justified every cruel act he committed. He had dragged her by the hand, thrown her into his chariot and paid no heed to her cries, treating her and her sisters like a possession, to be given away when he seemed fit. The way Bhishma had stormed in, his presence dominating the hall, his strength overpowering everyone who dared stand in his way. He hadn't even spared her a glance as he fought off the suitors, his focus solely on his mission to secure wives for his stepbrother. It was as if she were invisible, her wishes irrelevant, her life already decided by his iron will.

No, she would rise from the ashes of her ruined life, her heart a furnace of wrath. If the gods had cursed her to live in the shadow of this injustice, she would turn that curse into her strength. Bhishma would pay for what he had done. She would make sure of it. Bhishma might have thought himself invincible, his destiny ordained by the heavens, but Amba would defy the gods themselves if she had to. She would see him fall, see the fear in his eyes as he realized that his fate lay not in the stars, but in her hands.

"I vow to finish you, Mahamahim Bhishma!" she spat out, fire dancing in her eyes. "I will finish you!"

"I will wait for you, Amba," he had said, his eyes downcast, his head bowed, solemn and pensive. "I will wait for my death."

The thought of him, standing there with his unshakable resolve, made her blood boil. How dare he? How dare he think he could take everything from her and walk away unscathed?

The memory of his voice sent a chill down her spine, mingling with the fire that burned within her. There had been no fear in his words, no defiance—only acceptance. It was as if he knew, as if he had always known that this day would come. That one day, the weight of his actions would return to haunt him, embodied in the form of the woman he had wronged.

His death would not be a mere release from his burdens—it would be her triumph, her justice.

Each thorn that pricked her feet, every drop of blood she shed, every storm she braved would lead her to this: to find the one warrior who could stand against Bhishma, to seek out the great sage and master of arms, Parashuram.

Wild beasts lurked in the forests, waiting for a moment of weakness. Bandits roamed the paths, seeking to prey on travellers. But none of these obstacles could deter Amba. Her rage was her shield, her sorrow her sword. 

She would not be stopped.

"Your justice can only be attained in your next birth. That is the way the world works."

His words struck her like a blow. The next birth? The next life? Amba's mind reeled at the thought. She had endured so much, suffered beyond measure, only to be told that her justice lay beyond the reach of this life. What was the point of continuing if her vengeance could not be achieved here and now? What was the point of living in a world that had stripped her of everything and offered nothing in return?

As the flames began to lick at the wood, she stepped onto the pyre, her face serene, her eyes closed. The heat grew intense, but she welcomed it, embraced it as the final purification of her soul. The flames that had burned within her heart for so long now burned around her, consuming her body even as they set her spirit free.

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Shikhandini knew there must be a greater purpose for her. One that rose above jewels and dolls.

When she picked up a sword for the first time, it felt like she belonged. Belonged in a battlefield.

She gravitated towards weaponry, wearing armour and dressing like a man, much to her father's disapproval.

"Dress like a princess, behave like a lady of this court," he would say.

God, she hated it.

When she finally heralded the Pandav army that day, she knew she was in power and no one, no one could stop her from fulfilling her destiny.

Oh, it felt too good to be true.

Bhishma laying his weapons down at the sight of her.

Helpless and lonely as his own clan fought against each other.

Sweet, sweet revenge.

"You did it, Amba," he said, baring his chest to her as if challenging her to strike. "You destroyed me."

Amba.

The name felt utterly familiar.

She stepped forward, her weapon poised, and with a fierce cry, she struck. Her blow was not the one that killed him—Arjun's arrows would do that, raining down upon Bhishma as he lay his arms wide, welcoming the death that had eluded him for so long.

Shikhandi took a deep breath, closing her eyes.

She had won. At long last, she had won.

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Thank you for reading!

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Love, A.