Beyond the grand battles and legendary heroes of the Mahabharata lies a realm of untold stories-fragments of truth that time has veiled. In these hidden moments, souls wrestle with choices, hearts ache in silence, and destinies are forged in the qui...
The night was darker than any Krishna had ever known. The sky above Dwaraka, usually vast and filled with stars, was thick with clouds, as though even the heavens had turned away from him. He sat in the quiet of his chamber, his flute abandoned beside him, his heart weighed down with a grief he could hardly bear.
Pradyumna was gone. Kidnapped. His lal, his very heart, taken from him. It felt as if the world itself had stopped. For all his power, all his might, Krishna had been unable to protect his child. And in that failure, a deep, relentless sadness consumed him, one that no words could express, no strength could suppress.
He stared ahead, his eyes unfocused, his thoughts drifting to all those he had lost over the years. First, Yashoda Maiya. The mother who had cradled him in her arms, who had loved him with a devotion that could never be replicated. Her loss still tore at him. The sweetness of her lullabies, her gentle touch, her unwavering love—it was gone. Forever. He had been her child, and in her arms, he had known the purest form of love. And then, she was taken from him by the ruthless passage of time. His heart still ached for her warmth.
Nand Baba followed. His father in every way that mattered, the man who had taught him what it meant to protect, to care for others, to be strong yet tender. Nand Baba had been his anchor in those early years, when the world outside their home was filled with threats and danger. But Krishna had lost him too, and with him, the stability of childhood, the sense of being safe and cared for.
And then, there was Radha. The mere thought of her was enough to bring Krishna to the brink of tears. She was not just a memory, she was a piece of his soul. Their love, though never spoken in the grand halls of Dwaraka, had been the most profound love of his life. She had known him—truly known him—in ways no one else ever could other than his Bharyas. And yet, duty had parted them, and the distance between them grew until she too was lost to him, living a life far from his own.
The pain of those losses, stacked one upon another, weighed on Krishna's heart. But this—this loss of Pradyumna—was too much to bear. His son, the embodiment of both him and Rukmini, the child they had poured their love into, was gone. And in his absence, Krishna felt the crushing guilt of being a father who had failed to protect his child. He was the protector of the world, yet he could not shield his own son.
He found his eyes tearing up, the weight of his grief almost too much to endure. And for the first time in his life, Krishna felt truly helpless. The world expected him to be strong, to be divine, to be unshakable. But tonight, he was just a father who had lost his son, a man grieving the pieces of his heart that had been taken from him.
He didn't hear Rukmini enter the room. She moved quietly, her steps soft, as if she knew the fragility of this moment. When she knelt beside him, her presence was the only thing that cut through the haze of his grief. He looked up at her, and for a moment, the weight of his sadness was reflected in her eyes.
Rukmini had always been his strength. She had stood by him through everything—every battle, every trial, every loss. But tonight, her face was lined with pain. She had lost Pradyumna too. Her son, her joy, the child she had carried, nurtured, loved with every fiber of her being, was gone. And yet, in the depth of her grief, she was still here for him.
"Priyavara," she whispered, her voice soft but steady. She placed her hand on his, her fingers trembling slightly, but her love unwavering. "You don't have to carry this alone."
Krishna's chest tightened at her words. He had always been the one to carry the burden, the one to protect, the one to hold the world together. But now, in this moment, he felt as if he was crumbling, and Rukmini, his shakti, was the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely.
"I've failed him," Krishna said, his voice raw, breaking under the weight of his guilt. "I failed our lal. I failed you."
Rukmini's eyes filled with tears, but she did not look away. Her hands gently cupped his face, her touch warm against the coldness that gripped him. "No, Priyavara. You have never failed us. You are the reason we've had so much love, so much joy. Pradyumna is a part of you—he carries your strength, your love. We will find him. But you... you must not lose yourself in this pain."
He shook his head, his voice faltering as he spoke. "I've lost too much, Priyathama. He was barely a small baby. I don't know if I can bear this."
Rukmini's hands tightened around his, her voice fierce with love and determination. "You are not alone in this. We have both lost him. But you are more than the losses you've faced, Priyavara. You are the love that binds us together. I believe in you, even when you feel you've lost everything."
Her words pierced through the fog of his despair, and for the first time since the news of Pradyumna's kidnapping, Krishna felt something other than sorrow—he felt love. Rukmini's love, pure and fierce, radiated through him, steadying his heart, reminding him of the man he was beneath the god the world expected him to be.
He pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers, the warmth of her presence a balm to the raw ache in his soul. "I don't know what I would do without you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You are my strength, Priyathama. When I have nothing left, I have you."
"And you have me," she replied, her tears falling freely now, but her voice unshakable. "We will face this together, Priyavara. You are my world, my soul. Pradyumna is a part of us both, and no matter what happens, we will not lose him. I will not let you carry this alone."
And Krishna, for the first time in what felt like ages, allowed himself to be vulnerable in her presence. He allowed himself to lean on her, to draw from her love and her unwavering belief in him. It was a rare moment, one that few would ever see—the god of the universe, the Dwarakadeesha, simply a man in the arms of his wife, grieving the loss of his child.
"I love you," Krishna whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
"And I love you," Rukmini replied, her own tears falling now, though they were tears of love as much as they were of sorrow.
Krishna held her tightly, his heart steadying in the warmth of her embrace. And as the night stretched on, he found strength in her, just as she found strength in him. Together, they would face whatever came next. Together, they would endure the pain, the uncertainty, the darkness.
For their love—for each other, for their son—was a force that could not be broken. And no matter what lay ahead, Krishna knew, with his Lakshmi - his Astabharayas by his side, he would find a way always.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
