Draupadi

CHAPTER LIV

(time lapse, after Uttara's pregnancy, birth of Parikshit)

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"Every new beginning comes from the end of other beginnings."

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Uttara's child gives birth one night in the monsoon.

I stand in the corner of the room, and the baby's cry sound so heavenly to my ears. 

Uttara holds the child smiling the widest smile I have seen in ages. Her eyes glisten and glimmer with joy , she looks so beautiful that my heart aches. 

I walk out of the room to tell my husbands who are decorating Uttara's room for the child. They drape the room in curtains of moonlight gauze and hang beautiful stars, moons and even an bow and arrow from the wall. 

 Sahadeva murmurs something to the stars, in a language more ancient than time. I watch Yudhisthra brush the name Parikshit carved on all of his things with his fingertips. I nearly cry by how overwhelming this is.

To watch these men that I have loved, wept with, grieved with, lose myself with put all of their grief into hope. And I know then: this is how we live. This is how we keep loving even when it breaks us.

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Yudhisthra runs a fatherly hand over Uttara's hair. Gently. Lovingly.

And just like that, I am pulled backward in time.

To Indraprastha. To the birth of Prativindhya.

Dhri and my father had arrived that morning, full of laughter and flowers and wild gifts from Panchala. Dhri had scooped Prativindhya up like he already knew him, like he'd waited a lifetime to hold him.

The way he looked at my son was the way I looked at him.

And now—now I watch my son's widow hold a new life in her arms, and my brother is gone. My father is gone. My sons are gone. But the feeling is the same.

The love is the same.

Krishna arrives.

Of course he does. He always does. He slips into the room like a blessing, like moonlight. No one called him, but he is exactly on time. As always.

He is the first to hold the child. He cradles Parikshit like something fragile and ancient, and his face is unreadable. For a long time, no one speaks. Then Subhadhra steps forward.

I watch Subhadhra hold Parikshit silently crying. Uttara then looks at me and asks me to hold the child.

I say no. "I'm unlucky Uttara. No child should be held by me." I say and she looks at me for a long moment and then without a word places the child in my arms. I protest but then she wipes my tears and says "Please maa."

My resolve crumbles. I hold Parakshit like a flower and  kiss him. He smells like rain and milk and everything I thought I had lost forever.

It rains harder outside than my tears. 

Subhadhra holds my hand as we watch Arjun hold his grandson. Mata Kunti walks in and leans against Arjun as he holds Parikshit. 

She's smiling wider that I have seen in ages. Tears of joy fall down Arjuna's eyes and he hands Parikshit to his mother and then looks away.

In that moment I can see exactly what he is thinking of. 

Arjun had just been handed Abhimanyu. I was sitting next to Subhadhra brushing her hair and murmuring sweet nothings. 

Subhadhra face was beautiful, glowing and she looked like she had all the joy in the world. Like the queen of all things beautiful. 

 Krishna stood on the other side, teasing her mercilessly. "Still no niece," he complained. "You're all so useless."

I glared at him, of course. We all laughed.

But Arjuna—he didn't laugh. He didn't speak. He was holding Abhimanyu like he would never let go. Like he was trying to memorize him—his scent, his weight, his breath.

Night fell.

And still, he held him.

None of us had held the child yet. Not even Krishna.

"Arjuna," Krishna said finally. "Come on. Let me hold my nephew."

"No," Arjuna whispered. "Not yet."

"Why not?"

"Because I've only just begun to love him."

I remember Krishna trying to argue, trying to wrestle the baby from him. He even pretended to sulk. But Arjuna wouldn't budge.

That night, Abhimanyu slept in his father's arms.

And now, Parikshit sleeps in those same arms.

And now I see that moment in all of our eyes.

Yudhisthira places a small anklet on Parikshit's tiny foot. Nakula ties a charm to the cradle. 

Bhima returns with honey and sweets and feeds them to everyone by hand, laughing through tears.

Krishna pulls me into a half-hug and says, "We're all getting older, aren't we, Panchali?"

I laugh wetly. "You're the oldest one here."

"Ageless," he corrects me. "Not old."

Kunti sits beside Uttara and runs her fingers through her hair, whispering something only a mother would say. I do not need to hear the words. I know what they are. Because I have also been told those same words.

And for a while, we are all just people again.

Not kings. Not warriors. Not widows. Not gods.

Just a family.

Together. Breathing.

Alive.

Later, I step out into the corridor. The monsoon has quieted, now just a drizzle, the world washed soft and silver. I look back into the room.

Uttara has fallen asleep. Parikshit sleeps beside her. Subhadra leans against Arjuna, and he holds her like he's afraid she'll disappear. Kunti hums something old and sweet.

And my husbands—my mad, brilliant, beautiful husbands—are sitting on the floor together, telling some ridiculous story from vanvaas and laughing too loudly.

And I think:

We have lost everything. And still—we are here.

"Grief carves space inside the heart, so that one day, joy might have somewhere to live."

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I absolutely love this chapter. 

It's just so sweet and there's just something so beautiful about monsoon and new beginnings. This scene is beautiful honestly.

I am sorry I took so long to update but I was caught up in my bharathanatyam arangetram, but now that's over. I am really happy.

Today is my birthday and I  am very proud of myself.

There is just something about classical dance that keeps you hooked onto it. It is madly beautiful. 

Love you guys.

Please vote and comment. It means a lot to me.

(The book is nearing it's end guys!!! Just a few more chapters!)

Bye!