Anya's ancient antics: a mahabharat tale

chapter 36

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Duryodhan’s hand gripped Anya’s wrist tightly as he led her through the dimly lit corridors of the palace, the walls echoing the soft patter of their footsteps. His pace was determined, almost impatient, and Anya struggled to keep up, stumbling slightly as her heart raced in her chest. But it wasn’t just the speed that had her feeling breathless. The sheer weight of his presence, the way his strong hand held hers so possessively, made her uneasy in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

When they finally reached the temple, Duryodhan stopped abruptly, causing Anya to bump into him. She barely had time to catch her breath before he turned to face her, his expression unreadable. The golden light of the oil lamps flickered across his face, casting sharp shadows that made his sharp features appear even more intimidating.

“I want you to wear this,” he said, holding out an intricate, regal red sari adorned with rich golden embroidery. Along with it came a set of jewelry—heavy, shimmering pieces that gleamed like they belonged to royalty. His voice was calm, but there was an underlying strictness that left no room for protest. His dark eyes, though calm, warned her that defiance would not be tolerated.

Anya stared at the sari in his hands, her eyes widening. “W-why?” she stammered, her fingers trembling slightly as she looked between the garment and him. “What’s all this for?” Her voice was filled with apprehension, her usual confidence faltering under his intense gaze.

Duryodhan’s gaze darkened, the shadows from the lamps making his expression all the more severe. “Don’t question me,” he commanded, his voice steady yet firm. “Just do as I say.”

For a moment, Anya wanted to argue—she always did when things didn’t go her way. She wanted to huff, stomp her feet, and throw a tantrum like she always did, especially with someone as overbearing as him. But the strictness in his eyes made her pause. She knew that this was not the time to push him. With a frustrated sigh, she grabbed the sari from his hands, her lips pulling into a pout. “Fine,” she muttered under her breath, shooting him a side-eye glare before storming off toward the waiting maid.

As the maid quietly adjusted the red sari around her, carefully pinning the fabric into place, Anya’s mind began to whirl. *Since when does he like red? Is this some kind of royal ritual? Oh no, what if this is for some sacrificial ceremony?* Her eyes widened as her thoughts spiraled into absurdity. She glanced down at the sari, noting how the red fabric seemed to glow in the dim light. *Great, now I look like a walking flame…*

Once fully dressed, the maid adorned her with the heavy jewelry—golden bangles that jingled with every movement, a necklace that shimmered with tiny gems, and earrings that felt like they weighed more than her head. Anya sighed, feeling like she had been transformed into a doll.

When she finally emerged, her gaze immediately found Duryodhan. He was standing by the altar, dressed in lavish new robes. His regal appearance, with the golden crown on his head and the fine fabrics that clung to his powerful frame, made her heart skip a beat. He looked every bit the warrior prince he was, but something about his gaze, sharp and focused, sent a shiver down her spine.

Her eyes flickered nervously to the side, where she spotted Karna standing quietly beside him. His calm, steady presence should have been comforting, but instead, it made her stomach churn with unease. *Oh gods, why is Karna here?* Her mind raced as she tried to piece everything together. *What’s happening?* Panic bubbled in her chest, and for a split second, she considered running.

But before she could make a move, Duryodhan’s hand wrapped firmly around her wrist, pulling her back to reality. His grip was strong, unwavering, and once again, she found herself following him. He led her to the center of the temple, his lips close to her ear as he leaned in, whispering in a low, commanding tone, “Do as the Brahmin says. And don’t even think about causing a scene, or else there will be consequences.”

Anya’s face flushed at his words, both with indignation and embarrassment. She puffed her cheeks out, her arms crossing over her chest as she mumbled, “You’re such a bossy brute.” But despite her defiance, she knew better than to test him now. The atmosphere was heavy with sacredness, and even Anya, with all her rebellious spirit, could feel the weight of what was happening.

The Brahmin began chanting, his voice resonating through the quiet temple, each syllable thick with ritualistic importance. Anya stood stiffly, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the edge of her sari as she tried to make sense of the situation. Her gaze flickered to the altar, then to the Brahmin, then to Duryodhan, who stood beside her with an unreadable expression.

Suddenly, Duryodhan stepped forward, holding a delicate necklace  in his hands. The golden necklace shimmered under the temple’s light, its intricate design sparkling like stars against the night sky. Anya’s breath caught in her throat as she watched him bring the necklace toward her. Her heart thudded in her chest, the realization of what was happening slowly sinking in.

Duryodhan carefully placed the necklace around her neck, his fingers grazing her skin as he clasped it in place. The cold metal felt heavy, both physically and emotionally. Anya blinked, her wide eyes following his hands, mesmerized by the way the necklace settled against her collarbone. It was beautiful—delicate, intricate, and undeniably a symbol of something far greater than a mere ornament. *Is this… a necklace? Or…?*

Before she could finish her thought, Duryodhan’s hand moved to her forehead, gently parting her hairline. Her eyes widened in shock as she realized what was coming next—the *sindur.* He took a pinch of the red powder and applied it to her parting with steady hands, the bright vermilion settling against her dark hair. The sacred red mark of a married woman.

Her heart raced as the full weight of what was happening crashed down on her. *This… is marriage?* Her mind screamed in disbelief, her body frozen as Duryodhan continued with the ritual. The Brahmin chanted once more, and this time, Duryodhan placed a *chudamani* delicately on her head, its sparkling gems resting against her brow.

“Your marriage is complete,” the Brahmin declared, his voice filling the room with finality.

Anya stood there, completely stunned. She blinked several times, trying to comprehend the words. *I… I’m married?* Her eyes darted between the sacred symbols—the *mangalsutra*, the *sindur*, the *chudamani*—each one sealing her fate. Her fingers trembled as they brushed against the necklace, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

“I-I’m married?” she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if saying it out loud might somehow make it less real.

Duryodhan’s gaze bore into hers, his intense eyes pulling her back into the present. He reached out, gently lifting her chin so she was forced to look at him. His touch was firm yet gentle, and his lips curled into a small, victorious smirk. “Yes, you’re married,” he confirmed, his voice low and possessive. His thumb brushed against her jawline, sending an involuntary shiver through her body. “And now, you are mine.”

Anya’s heart raced, her thoughts jumbled as she struggled to process everything. His words, his touch, the weight of the sacred symbols—it all felt too much, too fast. Her lips parted, but no words came out.

Just then, Karna stepped forward, breaking the tense moment. He smiled softly, though there was a hint of something deeper in his eyes. “Congratulations, Anya,” he said quietly. “You are now Queen Duryodhani.”

Anya blinked, still too stunned to respond. The words felt foreign to her, like they belonged to someone else. Queen Duryodhani? Her? She stared at Karna, then at Duryodhan, her mind racing to catch up with the reality she had just been thrust into