Abhimanyu

By Anuja Chandramouli

Anuja Chandramouli is a bestselling author and new age Indian classicist widely regarded as one of the finest writers in mythology, historical fiction and fantasy. Her highly acclaimed debut novel, Arjuna: Saga of a Pandava Warrior-Prince, was named as one of the top 5 sellers in the Indian writing category for the year 2012 by Amazon India. Her novels on Kamadeva Shakti, Yama, Kartikeya, Prithviraj Chauhan, Padmavati, Ganga, and Tughlaq went on to become bestsellers. Her articles, short stories and book reviews appear in various publications like The New Indian Express, The Hindu, Scroll. in and Femina. Mohini: The Enchantress, her groundbreaking book is the winner of the prestigious Popular Choice AutHer award. An accomplished TEDx speaker and storyteller, Anuja Chandramouli, regularly conducts workshops on creative writing, mythology and empowerment across the country. Her popular Mahabharata and Ramayana with Anuja storytelling series is available on YouTube. She is a trained Bharatanatyam dancer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Aug 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9789354581281

Anuja Chandramouli

Anuja Chandramouli is a bestselling author and new age Indian classicist widely regarded as one of the finest writers in mythology, historical fiction and fantasy. Her highly acclaimed debut novel, Arjuna: Saga of a Pandava Warrior-Prince, was named as one of the top 5 sellers in the Indian writing category for the year 2012 by Amazon India. Her novels on Kamadeva Shakti, Yama, Kartikeya, Prithviraj Chauhan, Padmavati, Ganga, and Tughlaq went on to become bestsellers. Her articles, short stories and book reviews appear in various publications like The New Indian Express, The Hindu, Scroll.in and Femina. Mohini: The Enchantress, her groundbreaking book is the winner of the prestigious Popular Choice AutHer award. An accomplished TEDx speaker and storyteller, Anuja Chandramouli, regularly conducts workshops on creative writing, mythology and empowerment across the country. Her popular Mahabharata and Ramayana with Anuja storytelling series is available on YouTube. She is a trained Bharatanatyam dancer.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The war chariot, its golden splendour bespattered with mud and gore, was drawn by four unearthly Gandharva steeds of the purest silver. It caught the last rays of the setting sun as it wound its way steadily across the battlefield, carrying a lone warrior. The fierce simian emblazoned on the undulating banner rippled menacingly in the dying breeze. The sound of Devadutta , the warrior’s mighty conch, carried all the way across the vast, dusty plain to the enemy camp, striking terror into the hearts of all those who heard it. They trembled, nerves stretched taut to breaking point. Every part of the southern tip of Kurukshetra was littered with the dead and dying. Carrion descended on the unexpected bounty, screeching with delight, settling with flapping wings to feast on the flesh and blood of the vanquished.

Arjuna, the Pandava warrior in the chariot, who had orchestrated the carnage, ought to have been feeling elated with the stupendous achievement. He had despatched every last one of the pestilential samsaptakas – that deadly suicide squad numbering tens of thousands, brought together by King Susharma of Trigarta and his brothers – for the sole purpose of killing him. Susharma had been a sworn foe in life, but now that he had been despatched to the deepest pits of Yama’s thousand hells, there was finally an end to his enmity.

Yet Arjuna did not feel triumphant. Far from it.

The golden chariot was driven by Arjuna’s sarathy, Krishna. The one they called the Dark Lord. He too, was strangely subdued, his demeanour disquieting. Arjuna was suddenly afraid of what it implied. There was a fell quality to the air he breathed, replete with sorrow and salty tears. A premonition of disaster snaked its way into the great warrior’s lion heart and he trembled, as if in the grip of a burning fever. Nameless dread left him paralyzed as panic coursed through his veins, till every inch of his being reverberated with rank terror. Something was wrong; more than wrong. He was sure of it. He could feel it in his rattling bones.

When he spoke, Arjuna’s voice shook with the intensity of his misgivings. ‘You feel it too, do you not, Krishna? Some grave misfortune has overtaken us. And I was not there to prevent it. My soul is wracked with a sense of overwhelming loss; unspeakable fear grips my heart; my mouth is dry and my throat so parched I cannot swallow. If the Acharya has succeeded in his foul intent to capture my brother Yudhishtra, or harmed a single hair of his head, my wrath will overtake him and every man under his command, including my accursed cousins, the Kauravas. My astras will follow them to the ends of the earth and reduce them to ash. Make haste, Krishna! We must be sure Yudhishtra is well. If anything were to happen to him…’

‘Yudhishtra is unharmed, Arjuna, as are your other brothers. Kurukshetra is unequal to the task of claiming their lives. For so it has been written...’

With an encouraging murmur, Krishna urged the fatigued horses to give him their best effort and they responded with a burst of speed. As they tore up the distance under their racing hoofs, the duo in the carriage came within sight of the Pandava camp. As they approached, unease gripped Arjuna; his heartbeat was a rapid staccato that deafened him in the deathly silence that greeted his arrival.

He glanced at his friend, tugging at the reins to calm the agitated horses. Krishna’s sombre expression did little to comfort him. ‘Have you ever heard such dreadful silence?’ he burst forth. ‘There is no joyous sound of instruments being played, nor the chatter of men’s voices, discussing the day’s battle. None raise their eyes nor greet me, as is their wont. Instead, they slink away into the shadows like whipped dogs. What does it mean?’

His heart was a wild thing in his chest, drumming in wild frenzy, mad with an alarm he could not name.

‘Where is my son?’ he cried out. ‘He is ever the first to greet me; to tell of the day’s momentous events. Yet today, when I return in victory, he is not here. Where is my son? The only thing that makes this accursed war bearable is his smile. When I behold it, I forget every atrocity I have had the misfortune to witness on these accursed killing fields. Where is he?’

Arjuna’s voice died away, as terrible foreboding gripped his heart. Something was gravely amiss…yet none would raise their voice to tell him. What could be the cause of such an unholy silence?

Krishna said nothing. Instead, he quickly drove into the camp. The unearthly quiet was deafening, broken only by the muted sound of fitful sobbing. Arjuna’s mounting agitation threatened to overwhelm him as they approached Yudhishtra’s royal enclosure. All his brothers were congregated there. He could barely decipher his own thoughts over the noise in his head. Descending from the chariot on legs that seemed suddenly unequal to the task of supporting him, Arjuna strode into the tent.

The Upapandavas were there too, yet not one could bring himself to look Arjuna in the eye. In abject grief and misery, they sat clutching their knees, sobbing like children.

Arjuna shuddered at the sight. His gaze fell on Yudhishtra. He had never seen him look so devastated, not even when he had lost their kingdom and mutely witnessed their wife being molested by their Kaurava cousins. Bhima sat hunched on the ground, great sobs wracking the mighty frame that could withstand a thousand thunderbolts. Nakula stood weeping as though his heart had been torn from his chest. Sahadeva stood at his side, gazing fixedly at nothing, tears streaming down his face.

It was a ghastly sight. Arjuna scanned the scene, struggling to understand what he was seeing, even as he frantically searched for one beloved face. Surely all his loved ones were safe and accounted for? Yet one remained absent. The one he loved best of all. Where was he?

Arjuna watched, still as a stone, as his brothers tried to compose themselves to tell him what had occured. But even before they could utter the words, he began to see a glimmer of the unspeakable tragedy that had overtaken them. His mind travelled back to the start of the day’s battle...

It was the thirteenth day. Acharya Drona, his distinctive silver mane flying wildly in the wind, had arranged his Kaurava troops in the deadliest of formations – the hunting vyuha – designed solely to claim the life of a maharatha on the Pandava side. Only three men present on the blood-soaked plain of Kurukshetra knew the secret to penetrating that infernal, killing vyuha. The fourth was in faraway Dwaraka. Two of these had been otherwise engaged in battle at the southern tip of Kurukshetra. That left just one who knew how to enter that spinning wheel of death. But, unlike the others, he did not know how to fight his way out… His father had been most remiss in not completing his son’s education.

Surely, Arjuna thought, his heart thudding in his chest, the boy had not paid the price for his failure? In that instant, the terrible truth dawned on him with crushing finality. The invincible warrior fell to his knees. His worst fears were confirmed when Krishna too, sank to the earth beside him, his usually serene face suffused with the same boundless grief that consumed Arjuna.

Searing pain lanced through his being, leaving him crippled with an agonizing anguish that would forever more hold him in thrall. Cast adrift on a sea of sorrow and engulfed by merciless waves of unbearable torment, Arjuna forced himself to ask the question to which he already knew the answer: ‘Where is Abhimanyu?’

INTERLUDE

The sounds of the awakening forest eased her from a deep and contented slumber. Rising languorously, she stretched her long limbs, sighing, as she listened to the birdsong outside, echoing the happy strumming of her own heartstrings. A faint smile hovered on her luscious lips, swollen from being crushed by passionate kisses. The harmonious chorus was broken every now and then by the boisterous calls of the denizens of the forest, who were feeling as merry as she on this fine morning. It was the dawn of another day of perfect happiness and she stood up eagerly, anxious to savour every moment.

He wasn’t there, of course. But that didn’t bother her in the least. He was who he was, after all. No matter where he was or how pressing the demands made upon him, he never missed his gruelling archery drills. He insisted on practising every day, with the devotion of a true bhakta. He would certainly have retreated deep into the woods, yet she could clearly envision him, bow taut, every muscle and sinew rippling and straining with the effort.

With unwavering focus and a sharp intensity that always made her breath catch in her throat, he would move with such quick, lethal grace that it was near impossible for the naked eye to actually see him pluck an arrow, nock, draw and release. But if you had spent countless hours watching him, as she had, you knew that he pursed his lips ever so slightly at the full extent of the draw. She always wanted to kiss him then. But she would never dream of disturbing him as he put himself through the paces. Not that anyone or anything could penetrate his all-encompassing focus when it came to archery.

Sometimes, she felt he could keep at it till the end of time as he worked on perfecting that which was already perfection. At other times, she was convinced that his bow was his one true love and wondered why she was not more envious.

Humming to herself, she pottered about the little hut he had raised with his own hands. It was why she loved it, down to the last blade of grass and straw that formed its barest bones, to the few clay pots she used to cook. She was a Princess of the ancient house of Vrishni, used to opulence and luxury, the best of everything, yet she wanted nothing more than to live out her days dressed in the simple garb of a woods-woman, in this humble abode, which had given her in a year more happiness than most others experienced in a lifetime.

She glanced critically at the paintings she had laboured over, which brightened the sturdy walls he had erected. They were not high art but she was pleased with her efforts. Painstakingly drawn with charcoal and coloured with the vegetable and floral dyes he had helped her make, they were all of him. Yet she felt she had not been able to completely capture the impossible potency, power, animal magnetism and breathtaking strength of character which defined the man. Her man. He had begged her to make a few sketches of herself, but she had merely shaken her head. Self portraits did not inspire her the way he did.

‘But you inspire me,’ he had cajoled. ‘I carry your face in my heart wherever I go.’

‘Then there is no need for me to draw my face, is there?’ she had teased. But when he had persisted, she had promised to work on a small portrait.

He was obstinate. And much too used to getting his own way. But the great man would have to wait. She was working on something else right now. A small surprise for him – a simple miniature – but it had gained a soul of its own and eclipsed everything she had ever worked on before. It had required an intensity of mind and heart she had never experienced before, demanding her very soul. And she had given it all willingly. Now, she lifted the soft cloth that covered her unfinished work, trying to visualize it finished, sensing something of the magnificence it portended. Finally, she tore her gaze away with supreme reluctance and went to do her morning chores.

They were waiting for her when she stepped out, bearing a small handwoven basket from which she scattered fistfuls of grain and seed. Birds, rabbits, deer, and even peacocks, whose raucous screeching had initially made her feel they were scolding her for trespassing on their natural habitat, all came to nibble, used to her gentle presence. The peacocks even bobbed their jewelled heads in regal approval. The vibrant green of the hilly terrain, the deep blues of the rushing river, the explosion of colour from the myriad blooms, encompassing the entire spectrum of known and unknown hues, the cascade of silvery water over water-smoothened rocks, caressed her senses as she basked in the deep sense of peace and wellbeing that enfolded her.

How fortunate she was to be loved by the one she had adored all her life! From the moment she could sneak up like a mouse and sit in a quiet nook, unseen by her big brothers – the fair one and the other, who was so dark he was almost blue – hanging on their every word as they regaled their friends with stories of her hero’s great deeds and the greater feats he was expected to perform, she had loved him. She loved him with every atom of her being. To belong to him had been the only dream she had ever nurtured. She had known even then that her Prince would come for her some day, that the power of her passion was strong enough to draw him to her. Their love was inevitable.

Her dark brother’s wife, Rukmini, had loved him from afar. And when the Princess of Vidarbha’s brutish brother, Rukmi, had tried to marry her off to one of his odious allies, without her consent, the Dark Lord had come and carried her away, fulfilling the wildest demands of her wayward heart. She had known then that her hero would come for her too. Her dark brother had understood, of course. He always did. They said he was omniscient.

But her other brother did not. He was keen for her to marry his favourite pupil – yet another violent Kshatriya with a voracious appetite that impelled him to consume everything that crossed his path, with ravenous greed. Of course, she had not worried or worked herself into a frenzy of grief like those melodramatic, impractical heroines the bards sang about. There was no need for that. She knew he would come. Their love had the sanction of the Dark Lord, whom they both loved. So she had waited patiently.

And he had come. Just as she had always known he would. She still trembled, delirious with joy, when she remembered how he had snatched her up in his arms. There was nothing of the brute about him. He had made her feel precious, like something he would cherish to his last breath. His eyes, looking briefly into hers, had promised her all she had ever desired since she first saw him. Like one possessed, he had driven away with her into the night, in his racing chariot, as eager as she to begin their happily ever after. He had thrown back his head and laughed when she had grabbed the reins from him to extort the steeds to greater speed even as a detachment of Vrishni troops gave chase, enraged that a Pandava had dared to abduct their Princess.

Not once had she looked back at the luxury she was leaving behind. He was all she needed. The Dark Lord, the brother who had made it all possible, made sure they were welcomed back and the nuptials performed with the pomp and ceremony her people were famed for. A speedy messenger had been sent to inform the groom’s brother Yudhishtra, the Pandava King, and seek his blessing. This was readily granted. It was the kind of thing he was fastidious about.

Once their union had been duly solemnized and the seemingly endless festivities concluded, he had brought her here to the forest, to live out the term of his exile, placed on him for having broken a rule pertaining to the common wife he shared with his four brothers. Secretly, she thought it a fortuitous event, for it had led him to her.

Deep in the woods, they had made a beautiful life for themselves. She wished for nothing more than to live out their lives here. But she knew that could not be. Already, she could hear the clarion call of destiny, summoning her husband. He was one of the chosen ones, born to achieve the nebulous purposes of fate. She could never claim him for herself alone. It was the reason she was grateful for this period of grace, when they had found all the happiness in the cosmos in each other’s arms. Surely it was enough to sustain her for all eternity?

With deep tenderness she hugged herself and the spark of life she carried within. Her mother would have told her she was being fanciful, but she already knew the baby she carried would be as effulgent as a sunray, as effervescent as a moonbeam. Her child was special. How could he not be? Born of the great love they shared, he would be a gift to the three worlds. And he would be loved by all who had the good fortune to know or hear of him, to the farthest reaches of time and space. He would eclipse even his sire in might, valour and virtue. She was filled with impatience for his arrival; to hold this special child in her arms. But first she had to tell her beloved.

His firm tread was unmistakeable. Having finished his arduous training, he had taken his daily dip in the holy waters of Pushkara, and completed his puja. He was such a creature of habit, she thought, amused. As for her, she seldom bothered to plan anything and was happy to navigate the currents of life as required or simply surrender to its flow.

He would no doubt have gathered her favourite roots, berries and fruits so they could break their fast together. There would certainly also be honey, fresh from the comb. Later, he would go hunting for venison, and prepare it just the way she liked. He had not commented on her suddenly voracious appetite, which made her wonder if he knew. But there was no time to think about it as he appeared and embraced her with the frenzied urgency of one who could not bear to be parted from his beloved for another moment. Smiling, she pulled away and took from his hands the things he had collected.

They ate hungrily, feeding each other choice morsels. Clearing the banana leaves on which they had eaten, and the earthen tumblers from which they had drunk the cool river water, she stole a glance at him and caught him looking at her with a meditative air. She blushed, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.

When she reappeared, wiping her hands, he drew her to sit on his lap. There would never be a more perfect moment. Leaning her head on his shoulder, she whispered into his ear. Mischievously, she watched his face. His eyes filled with joy and his mouth stretched in a smile of wordless wonder

‘A boy!’ he breathed at last. ‘Our son will be the greatest warrior this world has seen! He will combine the strength of my brothers and your’s, with my skills, yet possess none of our weaknesses. His brilliance will be so all-encompassing that the three worlds will be blinded by his God-like splendour…’

‘How do you know it will be a boy?’ she teased. It was natural that as the mother she knew, but how could he, a mere man, presume to know the sex of their unborn child? ‘The baby could be a beautiful girl who will be the apple of her father’s eye and brighten the three worlds with the kindness and sweetness of her disposition. Perhaps, as one born to you, she will also be a brilliant archer, who will use her skill to restore balance and promote goodness.’

He smiled at the pretty picture her words conjured. ‘What a blessing it would be to have a daughter as sweet and beautiful as you. We shall work on it next time. As to your question, I did not know until the moment you told me, that you were with child.’ He paused, his face cast in a fleeting moment of deep introspection. ‘But now I do believe I sensed him listening with avid interest every time I spoke of the art and science of arms.’

She pouted. ‘I listen with avid interest too, to the tales of your many triumphs, your discourses on archery, weapons and military lore. Of course, I do nod off every once in a while, but I try to listen with at least one ear.’

He smiled and pulled her close. ‘I know you do, my love…’ he whispered, ‘but the little one isn’t just listening, he is learning.’ He looked at her, his eyes shining. ‘I think he is learning faster than I can teach him. Believe me, he will be incomparable and invincible one day. I have an unshakeable belief that he will be the culmination of every good deed and meritorous act I have done in the endless cycle of rebirths I have lived through.’

Subhadra quickly placed a finger on his lips to hush him. Was it not tempting the fates to speak so? She laid a protective hand on her belly, resting her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat. ‘Leave the little mite alone…’ she chided. ‘There will be time enough for momentous undertakings and miraculous deeds after he is born.’

They remained like that for a long time, savouring the precious moments.

‘Arjuna’s son will indeed be all you imagine,’ she whispered at last into the stillness. ‘And more...so much more.’

A PROPITIOUS BIRTH

New life is ever a cause for celebration. Yet there never was, nor will there ever be, a celebration as joyous and grand as that which followed the birth of Arjuna’s son in Indraprastha. Built by the Pandavas of mighty Kuru lineage, descendants of Manu, belonging to the lunar race of Chandravamsa , Indraprastha, named for Indra, King of the Gods, was magnificent. It was also a safe haven for all those who flocked to live within its walls.

After years spent in penury and hiding, evading numerous attempts made on their lives by their envious Kaurava cousins and instigated by jealous Duryodhana, the eldest, the Pandava brothers had lavished time, wealth and effort into making their capital the most resplendent city in the three worlds. At their cousin Krishna’s request, Indra had lent them the services of Vishwakarma, the divine architect. He had fashioned Indraprastha with loving attention to detail, creating a thing of beauty and harmony that was truly without equal in the known world.

When Subhadra gave birth to a son, who outshone the moon and stars in the firmament, the happiness of the Pandavas was complete. The royals, led by King Yudhishtra, were beside themselves with joy, for it had been prophesized that this remarkable child was the worthy one chosen to perpetuate their line.

When Arjuna, the third of the Pandava brothers, had returned from exile with his beautiful new wife, they had been received with an outpouring of love. Subhadra was a Vrishni Princess, sister to Balarama and Krishna, and famed across the length and breadth of the three worlds for her flawless beauty. Though the people of Indraprastha had heard this, they were nevertheless taken aback by her extraordinary loveliness. It wasn’t just that her Maker had lavished upon her his loving attention, settling on nothing less than perfection, it was also the kindness in her enormous eyes with their winged lashes and the warmth of her sudden smile that could have lit up even Yama’s thousand hells.

‘She is a goddess!’ the adoring crowds whispered to each other. ‘The epitome of beauty!’

‘Could Krishna’s sister and Arjuna’s wife be anything else?’

The couple had come without fanfare, clad in garments of bark, yet how glorious they looked! Their love for each other made them luminous and people thronged around them to bless them with a thousand years of happiness. Arjuna had always been the most popular of the Pandava brothers, beloved of the people. Not only was he a legendary warrior, but he was also one of them, wearing his greatness with ease, always willing to mingle, share a meal or a joke; listen to their troubles and help, no matter how big or small the demands made upon him. In fact, he had been exiled because he had entered the chamber where Yudhishtra was lying with their common wife, Draupadi, in order to retrieve his weapons to help a poor man who had lost his cattle. By placing the man’s needs above his own, he had violated one of the strictest rules the brothers followed regarding Draupadi.

Yudhishtra, Bhima, Nakula and Sahadeva were also just, magnanimous and devoted to their subjects, but none could help loving Arjuna just a little more. The people of Indraprastha were prepared to accept Subhadra into their hearts for his sake, but in time she proved herself worthy of their affection. Like her husband, she always had time for them, lent an ear to their troubles, and solved their problems, no matter how tricky.

Indraprastha had worn a festive air for the better part of a year, ever since Subhadra had shyly announced her pregnancy. And now, a son had been born to the adored couple and the people rejoiced. Their joyous celebrations resounded across the very heavens. King Yudhishtra bestowed heads of cattle in the thousands upon the citizenry, and gold coins by the bushel. Colourful garments and utensils were distributed to every household. Soldiers, artisans, musicians and scholars had their pay doubled, and even prisoners were freed. The commoners feasted like visiting royalty, eating till their bellies were fit to burst. They blessed the little Prince with every mouthful of meat and drink, wishing him a long life and limitless glory.

‘They say it is Arjuna’s progeny who will perpetuate the Kuru lineage,’ a bard informed anyone who would listen to his tale. ‘It is Arjuna’s reward for his noble conduct. Though he is capable of conquering the three worlds and ruling over all, he has never coveted his brother’s throne. He is content to serve as a dutiful younger brother should.

It is said that Bharatha and Lakshmana are the epitome of filial devotion. Lakshmana followed Rama into exile and Bharata refused to sit on the throne of Ayodhya, which his mother had wrongfully wrested for him. Even so, it is Arjuna’s actions which deserve greater praise, for while Rama was the best archer among his brothers, none of Arjuna’s brothers can surpass him as a warrior. Not even Bhima, blessed with almighty strength, can withstand him in battle. And so it is said that one day Arjuna’s son will rule the kingdom founded by the Pandavas, and enriched by his father’s mighty deeds. Our children and grandchildren will be fortunate indeed, for there will be no finer King!’

In the palace, Kunti, the Pandava matriarch, felt relieved that the question of the succession had finally been resolved. Even Draupadi, with her prickly pride, had taken to Subhadra, and loved the baby as she loved the father. The matriarch had been delighted when Arjuna had married her exquisite niece. The biological daughter of Sura, Krishna and Balarama’s grandfather, who had been adopted by Kuntiboja, Kunti was their paternal aunt. She had showered her new daughter-in-law with gifts of jewellery and silk, feeding her the choicest delicacies with her own hand. During Subhadra’s pregnancy, Kunti had endlessly crooned to the unborn child, telling him tales of heroism and valour.

‘He is clever,’ she pronounced proudly. ‘He can understand everything I say. I can sense it. He is eager to take his rightful place among the greats!’

Draupadi, the common wife of the five Pandava brothers, had fallen in love with the baby long before he was born. The Princess of Panchala was a proud woman, possessed of a fierce beauty that captivated men and held them in thrall. It was no secret, though she made it a point to love all her husbands, that her heart belonged to the third Pandava, who had won her hand by performing an impossible feat with his fabled bow. She had never allowed herself to rue the fact that due to a lapse on the matriarch’s part, she had been made to marry all five Pandava brothers. It was only in the secret depths of her being that she sometimes yearned for what might have been.

Jealous of her position with her husbands, she had made certain that none of their other wives were welcome in Indraprastha. A subtle and canny operator, her will was formidable. Her rivals hailed from illustrious lineages, but were no match for the fire-born Princess of Panchala, the jewel of her clan. Deivika of the Saivyas had won Yudhishtra’s heart and borne him a son, whom he had lovingly named Yaudheya. But when Draupadi had casually cast him a glance, Yudhishtra had hurried to her bed in a heartbeat. She had rewarded him with a son, whom they named Prativindhya. Recognising her husband’s obsession with Draupadi, Deivika had soon returned to her father’s kingdom, taking her infant son with her. It was, as events proved, the better part of wisdom, even if the bitter truth was hard to swallow.

Then there had been vain Valandhara, daughter of the mighty King of Kashi, whose hand had been given in marriage to Bhima. They too, had a son – Sarvaga. He was not blessed with his father’s prodigious strength, but he was quite winsome in his own way, though he had much of his mother’s vanity as well as her heavy-lidded eyes.

For Draupadi, it was hardly a challenge. Of all the brothers, Bhima was the one most besotted with her. Long ago, a travelling sage had regaled him with the tale of the glorious twins – Draupadi and Dhrishtadyumna – forged on the fire of their father Drupada’s determination to avenge his humiliation at the hands of his friend-turned-foe, Drona, the preceptor of the Kuru Princes. The story of her miraculous origins had inflamed his imagination and he had loved her fiercely long before he actually set eyes on her. Bhima counted himself blessed to even share a wife like Draupadi. With every passing day, his love for her only grew. He performed impossible tasks just to see her smile, and when she did, the strongest Pandava brother would feel his heart melt all over again. Till his dying day, he would be her slave. Bhima had been pathetically happy and grateful when Draupadi bore him sturdy Sutasoma, whom he doted on.

So, when Draupadi was done, Valandhara and Sarvaga faded into distant memory.

The twins Nakula and Sahadeva were also devoted to Draupadi. Nakula had married Karunamati, who hailed from the famous Kingdom of Chedi. Their son, Niramitra, was adorable. Sahadeva had won the hand of Dyutimati, Princess of Madra, the kingdom his own mother, Madri, had come from. The child of their union was Suhotra and Sahadeva loved both mother and son.

Yet, neither Karunamati nor Dyutimati had stood a chance against Draupadi’s wiles. In the end, the twins followed the precedent set by their elder brothers and decided of their own free will that their wives and sons