Anya's ancient antics: a mahabharat tale

chapter 44

"Hey, awesome readers! 🌟 Don’t just read and run! 👀 Drop a vote, and leave a comment—your thoughts fuel my creative brain! 💡 Whether it’s love, laughs, or ‘what just happened?!,’ I wanna hear it all! Let me know your feels, ‘cause your feedback = my happy dance! 💃🕺"

As Anya and Duryodhan entered Rajmata Gandhari’s chambers, they both respectfully bowed before her. Gandhari, always warm and loving toward her children, smiled widely, her blindfolded eyes soft with affection, and raised her hand to bless them both.

“Bless you, my children.  did you sleep well last night?” Gandhari asked, her voice gentle and filled with care.

Anya, eager to answer, smiled brightly, “It was good, Rajmata. Very restful!” She glanced at Duryodhan, remembering the warmth and comfort of waking up next to him. Even if someone hogged all the space, she thought mischievously but kept her smile sweet and innocent.

Duryodhan caught her playful look and smirked knowingly, a silent exchange passing between them. Just as he was about to tease her, Gandhari interrupted with a warm chuckle. “I’m glad to hear that. Now, Anya, there is a small tradition I’d like you to follow today,” she said, her tone light yet firm. “It is customary for a new wife to cook a meal for her husband. It symbolizes care and love.”

Anya’s eyes widened in mild panic as the words sunk in. Cook? Me? Her heart raced as her mind flashed back to her disastrous attempts at cooking in the past. She could barely drape a saree without help—this was a whole new battlefield!

Sensing her hesitation, Duryodhan quickly stepped in. “Mata, Anya isn’t really experienced with cooking yet. Perhaps the servants should—”

But Gandhari’s soft laughter interrupted him. “Oh, there’s no need to worry. The servants can help with preparation, and Anya can serve the meal. That alone will be enough to fulfill the ritual.”

Anya, despite her lack of confidence in cooking, felt a sudden surge of determination. She wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, especially not one tied to tradition. “No, no! I’ll do it!” she blurted out, her voice louder than intended. “I can cook! I mean, how hard can it be?”

Duryodhan gave her a sideways glance, a mixture of amusement and concern playing on his face. “Anya...” he started, his tone cautionary, but she was already fired up.

“I’ll make something wonderful, just wait!” she declared with exaggerated enthusiasm, flipping her braid dramatically as she hurried toward the kitchen. Duryodhan could only shake his head, a small smile tugging at his lips, as he watched her march off.

---

In the kitchen, however, things quickly descended into chaos.

Anya stood in the middle of the large, bustling kitchen, staring at the unfamiliar ingredients spread before her. “Okay... I think this goes here?” she muttered to herself, tossing a handful of flour into a bowl, though she had no idea what she was supposed to do next.

Before long, the kitchen looked like a scene from a disaster movie. Flour puffed up in clouds, coating her hair and clothes in a white film. She knocked over a jar of lentils, sending them spilling across the floor in a clattering mess, and nearly burned her hand as she struggled to control the heat of the fire.

“Why is everything sticking to the pan?” she grumbled, frustrated as she tried to scrape a half-burnt mixture off with a wooden spoon. How did people in ancient times even cook like this without microwaves?

The kitchen staff stood nearby, watching with a mix of concern and helplessness as they were forbidden to interfere. Anya’s muttering about measurements and flavors barely made sense, and her face was dusted with flour, sweat, and determination. She was a tornado of chaos, yet there was something undeniably endearing about her frantic attempts.