MIRAGE OF HEARTSTRINGS

PURPLE HYACINTH

"haah"

The night after the dinner stretched endlessly, a river of quiet and shadow that refused to release him.

Duryodhana returned to his chambers, closing the heavy oak door softly behind him, the sound muffled by thick rugs and walls that had witnessed generations of kings, wars, and secrets.

Lakshman slept in the adjoining room, the boy’s chest rising and falling in fragile, rhythmic peace. The little one clutched a patched, ragged toy, a small elephant with one missing tusk. And it reminded Duryodhana, painfully, that this was what he fought for. Not power, not revenge, not crowns or kingdoms, but this fragile, breathing life that depended entirely on him.

He leaned against the door for a long while, letting his forehead press to the cool wood.

The day had been suffocating in its politeness, the formalities of dining, the careful dance with the Pandavas’ silent probing. Nakula’s gaze had lingered too long in that hall, and Arjuna’s presence was like a taut string stretched across a dark room, threatening to snap at any moment.

The memory of their unspoken questions pressed against his chest with the weight of iron.

He had remain nonchalant at the mention of fate, but the image of the seven days—the fall, the cliff, the forest, the hidden palace, the quiet terror of keeping Lakshman alive—was vivid still. It haunted him with precision, a carved memory that no lapse of sleep could soften.

He doesn't know why they didn't asked him further or pressured him. But Whatever the reason was, he knows he doesn't have to think about that, beside his mind is already tired by recalling all the memories once again despite the lie he told—

"What about the seven days before rescue? I mean you and your son did got saved by fate"

"Don't know, the memory is blurry"

Blur? And that memory? How could that day can ever be blurred?

Each detail was seared into his mind: the feel of rough bark against his palms as he dragged himself along the cliff’s edge, the metallic taste of blood mingled with salt water in his mouth, the faint weight of Bhanumati’s body shielding Lakshman, and the ragged whimpers of the child as he clutched him, seeking warmth and life. He could pay any price to forget about that day but—

He still remember the time when the—

FLASHBACK

—road to Kalinga suddenly curved like a scar along the mountain side.

Stone pressed against sky, sky pressed against void.

The carriage wheels creaked with every turn, wood groaning as if it already knew what waited below. Wind rushed past the open lattice, cold and sharp, carrying the scent of pine and stone dust. Far beneath them lay nothing but mist and the promise of a violent end.

Bhanumati held Lakshman close to her chest.

The child slept, unaware—small fingers curled into her sari, breath warm against her skin. Every rise and fall of his chest anchored her, even as unease twisted inside her ribs.

Across from her, Duryodhana sat rigid.

He had barely spoken since dawn.
His crown lay beside him, wrapped carefully in cloth, untouched. His armor was lighter than usual, stripped of ceremony. Maharaj of Hastinapur, yet tonight he looked like a man fleeing rather than reigning.

Bhanumati watched him quietly.

She had learned the art of watching him—his silences, his clenched jaw, the way his eyes drifted elsewhere even when she spoke. She had mistaken restraint for dignity once. Later, she learned it was something far crueler: distance.