MIRAGE OF HEARTSTRINGS

BEHIND THE VEIL

The memory clawed at Nakula, vivid as though etched upon his skin. His brothers heard the story of pity and chance, of ruins and compassion. But the truth—sharp, merciless—had been hidden beneath.

It was not chance. It was hunger.

Nakula had sought Duryodhana with a desperation that bordered on madness.

The first light of dawn spilled over the edges of the ruined palace, washing its cracked pillars and vine-choked walls in a pale, uncertain gold. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of damp earth and old moss. Nakula’s footsteps echoed softly on the stone, the quiet rhythm of a man who walked with purpose, but without haste.

He had travelled the whole night, following little more than instinct and rumor—those faint whispers that spoke of a ghost wandering beyond the river, a figure once royal, once feared. It was a madness to believe it, perhaps. But madness had long been the only thing that kept his heart steady.

He paused before the great doors, one of them broken from its hinges. His fingers brushed the splintered wood, tracing scars that time had carved into the palace’s bones. Inside, the silence breathed.

Nakula entered

The air inside was colder. Dust rose in faint spirals with each step. Light fell in thin beams through cracks above, catching the shimmer of cobwebs and the ghost of banners that once held Kaurava colors. His gaze travelled along the corridor until he caught sight of a faint movement near the far end pillar's side — hesitant, silent but alive.

Duryodhana

Not the warrior who had once stood defiant on the field, clad in armor and fire, but a man worn down by solitude.

He looked nothing like the man Nakula remembered on the battlefield.

The proud Kaurava prince who once bore the weight of kingdoms now stood leaner, almost fragile. His long hair, untied, fell past his shoulders, dark with a few sun-browned strands. His face was lined, not with age, but with the exhaustion of one who had lived too long in exile. His dhoti was coarse, faded; his angavastram hung loosely, without ornament or emblem. There were no jewels, no armor, no crown—only the quiet burden of a man who had lost everything but the breath to continue.

His eyes, though, were unchanged. Sharp. Watchful.

Their eyes met

Duryodhana’s expression stilled—shock, recognition, then guarded calculation. The child beside him snuggled against him further as if sensing father's discomfort.

"Nakula"

The name dropped like a stone into still water.

His voice was low, rough with disuse, yet still carried the faint command that once bent soldiers to obedience.

Nakula inclined his head, a small smile touching his lips—soft, almost respectful. "Maharaj Duryodhana," he greeted evenly, voice calm as still water. "Or should I say…ghost of a Maharaj?"

Silence pressed between them.

"What are you doing here?" Duryodhana’s voice was low, guarded.

"I might ask the same," Nakula said quietly. "A dead man does not often leave behind footprints"

The Kaurava’s jaw tightened.
"You shouldn’t have come."

Nakula stepped forward, unhurried. "And yet, here I am."

Duryodhana shifted slightly, one arm instinctively moving in front of the boy. "Leave"

"I can’t" Nakula said softly. “Not after seeing this.” His eyes fell to Lakshman — the boy sleeping with soft breathes while leaning against his father