What if the Mahabharat was reshaped by wishes from another age?
Long ago, when Lord Ram prepared to leave for his abode, he demanded last wishes from his brothers.
Lakshman knew his motive was to protect his brother from all that he had to go thro...
The golden chariots of the Pandavs rolled through the grand gates of the royal palace of Anga, their arrival marked by the blowing of conch shells and the beating of ceremonial drums. Garlands of fragrant flowers adorned the palace, their vibrant colors weaving a tapestry of festivity, but for some, the air was heavy with an unspoken tension.
Sahdev, the youngest of the Pandavs, stepped down from the chariot with a sombre expression, his gaze fixed on the lavishly decorated palace that awaited them. Beside him, Nakul and Bheem exchanged a glance. Sensing their brother's gloom, they flanked him, throwing their arms around his shoulders in a show of camaraderie.
Nakul :- What’s this, little brother? Gloom at a wedding celebration? You should be smiling! Don’t worry, I’ll help you talk to Pristi when the moment’s right.
He whispered with a mischievous grin. Bheem, ever the protector, patted Sahdev’s back with a reassuring strength.
Bheem :- And if Pristi wishes to be with you, I’ll make sure it happens—no matter what anyone says.
His voice carried a quiet promise, his tone resolute. Sahdev managed a small smile, but the sadness in his eyes remained. As the Pandavs and their retinue entered the palace courtyard, they were met by a delegation of Anga’s ministers and courtiers, who bowed low in respect and extended a formal welcome. The grandeur of the palace, with its towering arches and glittering decorations, reflected the importance of the occasion.
At a distance, standing apart from the crowd, Vikram observed the procession. His sharp eyes zeroed in on Draupadi, who walked ahead of others with her son. Her beauty and confidence were undeniable, but for Vikram, they were a painful reminder of his humiliation. His hands clenched into fists, his jaw tightening as a wave of anger surged within him.
Vikram :- The audacity. She dares to come here, flaunting her arrogance.
He muttered under his breath, his voice seething with contempt. Vikram turned away abruptly, unwilling to let his fury disrupt the carefully constructed façade of the celebration.
Inside the palace, the Pandavs and Draupadi were escorted to the main hall, where the elders of Hastinapur awaited them. Dhritrashtra, seated on a high chair, offered a polite greeting, his blind eyes unseeing but his voice measured. Beside him stood Gandhari, Vidur, Kunti, and the venerable Bhism, their presence lending an air of formality to the gathering.
Across the hall, the Kauravs stood in a tight cluster, their expressions betraying a mix of disdain and calculated indifference. Duryodhan’s gaze was sharp, and Dussasan’s smirk betrayed his satisfaction at the unfolding events. Kunti, sensing the tension in the air, quickly stepped forward.
Kunti :- Come, my sons. Let us not linger here.
She said gently, her voice filled with motherly authority. She led the Pandavs and Draupadi away, her actions a subtle but deliberate attempt to prevent any confrontation. The hall quieted as the two factions separated, but the unspoken animosity hung in the air, a reminder of the fragile peace that bound them.
As they moved toward the inner chambers, Draupadi glanced back briefly, her gaze meeting Vikram’s for the briefest moment. The hatred in his eyes was unmistakable, and though she did not flinch, her expression turned thoughtful.
In the ornate corridors of Anga, the celebration continued, but beneath the surface, the currents of unease swirled, foreshadowing the storms yet to come.
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