MIRAGE OF HEARTSTRINGS

THE CASTED SHADOW

IN INDRAPRASTHA

AT NIGHT

"-so that's it"

"............."

"Did you even heard me Bhratashree?"

"Yeah I-........Did you heard from Nakula, bhrata Yudhishtir?"

"Hmm.....not now"

The three brothers nodded at their elder brother before going back to their works, wondering when their fifth brother is coming back from the inspection of dark forest tribe.

Unknown to the storm brewing in the coiled mind.

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IN THE FOREST

The forest had no moon tonight.

Under the canopy of sal and peepal trees, the world was swallowed whole by darkness. Only the faint silver of fireflies drifted between the roots, blinking in the silence like the eyes of unseen spirits.

Every step was soft on the carpet of fallen leaves, but the crunch of twigs snapped sharp in his ears, as though the forest were listening to him, marking his every movement.

The fourth Pandava walked without light or companion. He did not remember when he had entered the forest's unbeknownst part, nor why his feet had carried him so deep. But he could not turn back.

Not yet.

His thoughts kept crawling back to the pale blooded face of Maharani of Hastinapur and the burnt broken royal carriage's pieces which is beknownst for becoming pyre of Maharaj of Hastinapur and his son.

Somewhere beyond these shadows, the Yamuna had taken the ashes.

The priests had said so.

The people believed so.

And yet he is here, in the place where the trees grew thick and the air smelled of damp earth and wildflowers, because something in him refused to accept it.

They had burned the Eldest Kaurava's wife and is saying that the Eldest Kaurava and his son had already burned in the accident.

The words had been spoken, the rites had been performed of the whole 'departed to heaven' family.

But the fourth Pandava had not seen it. He had not touched the body, had not looked into those heavenly grey defiant eyes one last time. And so the truth could not yet be real.

His fingers brushed against the rough bark of a banyan tree, tracing the cold ridges of its trunk as though searching for an answer.

"He can't be gone," he whispered to no one. The forest swallowed the words.

A breeze moved through the leaves above, carrying the faintest smell-sharp, metallic, like rain on iron. It reminded him of their first duel, when the clash of their sword and Mace had rung through the courtyard of their Gurudev's house and blood had dotted the flagstones between them.

That blood had been his own.

The Eldest Kaurava had smiled then, not in cruelty but in that infuriating way of his, as though every strike was merely a game.

The Eldest twin's jaw tightened. He could still see that smile in the dark.

His Paduka (ancient Indian footwear) sank into the soft soil as he walked deeper, each step taking him further from the world of reason.

Here, the trees grew like walls, their branches tangled above like locked fingers, hiding the stars.

He imagined the eldest Kaurava here, in the forest, alive. Wounded perhaps, but alive. Perhaps the accident had been nothing but a trick of the gods, a way to hide him away from the world. And if he was here, the fourth Pandava would find him. And this time...

This time there would be no escape.

He remembered another night, years ago, when they were in the palace, newly learning the weapon fighting. The air had been thick with the smoke of cooking fires, and through the thin veil of trees, he had seen him sitting alone, sharpening his senses. Their eyes had met briefly across the darkness, neither speaking, neither looking away. It had been a war in silence, one that ended only when the Eldest Kaurava broke it with that same maddening calm, looking back down to his mace as if the eldest twin's presence meant nothing.

But it had meant something.

Everything.

The path beneath his feet narrowed, forcing him to move between two massive trunks that twisted like serpents frozen in time. He ran his palm along the bark, feeling its grooves like the lines of fate.

He thought of his hands around the Late Eldest Kaurava's wrists, holding him still, feeling the heat of his skin through the silk. The thought came unbidden, fevered, and he did not push it away.

Why should he?

What had the gods done but steal from him? If he had been faster-if he had acted when the hunger first began-he could have taken him.

Hidden him from the world.

Locked him where no wife, no son, no accident could touch him.

The forest seemed to lean closer now, branches arching overhead until the path was a tunnel. The air grew warmer, thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine. It clung to him, heady and intoxicating, the way the thought of the man always had.

He stopped walking.

Somewhere in the darkness ahead, there was the faintest sound. Not the call of an owl or the cry of a jackal, but the unmistakable shift of weight on leaves.

He held his breath.

For a moment-just a moment-he let himself believe. That it was him. That he would step from the shadows, eyes burning, lips curled in contempt, alive.

His chest ached with the force of it.

But the sound faded, swallowed by the stillness, and the illusion shattered.

He exhaled slowly, his hands curling into fists. "If you're alive," he murmured into the black, "I'll find you. And if you're not... then I'll take you from the gods themselves."

He began to walk again, but slower now. Each step was measured, as though the forest floor were sacred ground. He thought of the Eldest Kaurava lying beneath he burning carriage which becomes pure with his son, of the flames consuming that proud body. The image should have satisfied him.

It didn't.

It only stoked the hunger, twisting it into something sharper.

Possession, he realized, was the only thing that could ever sate it.

The path turned, leading him toward an ancient shrine half-buried in roots.

The stone figure of some forgotten deity sat crumbling in the dark, its eyes hollow, its smile cracked. He knelt before it, not in prayer but in thought.

"What would you have done?" he asked the stone face. "If someone took what was yours?"

The forest gave no answer, but in his mind, he heard his own.

You would take it back. You would burn the world to ash until it was in your hands again

His lips curved-not in a smile, but something colder.

He stood and pressed a hand to the deity's cheek, the stone warm from the breath of the forest. "Then that is what I will do."

When he stepped away from the shrine, the night seemed different. The darkness no longer pressed in-it followed him. A shadow that matched his own, bound to his steps.

He would not let the world keep him from what was his. Not the gods. Not death. Not time.

Somewhere in the black heart of the forest, a night bird screamed.

The fourth Pandava did not look back.

This time, he would be the one who would end this.

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