Words - once spoken can only be forgiven. The irreversible nature of them have always made the oldest caution the young lest they carry the regret like their ancestors. Alas! No one learns this lesson until it is too late.
(Blurb to be edited)
Vāc i...
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The court convened in the evening, the air thick with judgment. The great hall of Indraprastha was filled with nobles, ministers, and generals, their expressions grave as they awaited the final verdicts. The attack had been thwarted, the conspirators apprehended, but the echoes of treachery still lingered.
Scholar Bhavesh stood at the center of the assembly, his voice steady as he read the official report. He spoke of the casualties, the fire, the losses suffered. And then, he reached the names that had become the heart of the debate—Jatasya and Ahim.
The moment their names were spoken, the murmurs began.
“The boy is a criminal,” a courtier stated harshly. “He smuggled opium into our infirmary, put our warriors at risk, and when caught, he set fire to the evidence. He should be executed.”
The Royal Treasurer rested his fingers against his bearded chin. “Execution is one path, but we must ask—what is the lesson we wish to teach? If every fool caught in treachery is slain, will fear alone sustain Indraprastha’s stability?”
Sahadev leaned forward. “Ahim was reckless. His hands are not clean, but he was no mastermind. He was a mere tool—one that barely understood the consequences of his actions.”
Draupadi, seated beside Yudhishthir, lifted her chin. “Yet even the thoughtless can bring destruction, Treasurer. His ignorance does not erase his crime.”
A pause settled over the court, tension thick in the air. Then, a voice cut through the silence—Abhijishya.
Her injury was still fresh, bandaged tightly beneath her garments, the scent of medicinal herbs lingering faintly around her. She had initially intended to rest, reasoning that while she wanted to witness the trial, exhaustion weighed too heavily on her limbs. But Nakul, ever the worrier, had insisted she stay in bed. She had nearly relented—until a request arrived from Yudhishthir himself, asking for her presence if she felt well enough to attend.
That had made her pause.
Yudhishthir was not one to make such requests lightly. And if he believed her presence was needed, then there was something worth seeing, something worth hearing. Despite Nakul’s protests and his pointed glare as she carefully draped her shawl over her shoulders, she had made her way to the court.
Now, as silence stretched, all eyes turned toward her. Though her body ached, her voice was steady.
“We make a mistake if we treat him as a man beyond redemption.”
The gathered nobles turned toward her. She had been quiet throughout the proceedings, watching, listening—but now, her voice was steady, deliberate.
“He has been trained to be a healer,” she continued. “His hands have been used to harm, yes, but they were meant to heal. Let him serve Indraprastha—not as a free man, but under strict watch in the infirmary. Let him mend those he once put in danger.”
