#nakula

It had started, oddly enough, with failure.

Arjuna-yes, that Arjuna- had all but dropped his sword in the first lesson. Not misplaced. Not handed it over politely. Dropped it. Right in front of Acharya Drona.

The sword clattered like a gong struck too hard, bouncing once on the sun-baked stones and landing neatly at Drona’s feet. Arjuna winced. He was eleven. Mortified.

Drona hadn’t moved. He stared at the boy, eyes unreadable.

Arjuna, cheeks flaming, bent to retrieve it.

“Pick it up again,” Drona said, voice as smooth as dry flint. “Try again.”

No sighs. No comfort. No dismissal.

Just a command from his Acharya and Arjuna bowed his head and obeyed.

The bow had come naturally; it felt like it belonged to him before he ever touched it. But the sword? The sword was different. Intimate. Rebellious. Too close. It demanded something else from him…

Grit?? Grit he hadn’t yet named, but would come to know well. So, he decided to conquer it.

Not out of spite. Not even out of ambition.

He just didn’t like the feeling of losing.

By the end of the week, he’d snapped five wooden swords in half. The servants started hiding the practice ones. By the end of the month, Drona had stopped offering encouragement and simply begun showing up- arms crossed, silent, watching.

In the evenings, when the other princes wandered off to dinner or drowsy afternoons, Arjuna stayed back, panting in the dust, swinging again and again. Sand stuck to his elbows. Sweat soaked through his kurta. He never complained.

“Faster,” Drona would say.

So, Arjuna would try. Bleeding palms, shaking legs- he would try.

He was small, still growing into his limbs, quiet in ways that unnerved even Bhima. But when he moved- when he moved- it was like memory. Not the clumsy rhythm of boys mimicking heroes, but something older. Something remembered in the bones.

Drona saw it early, before the others did.

Before Bhima laughed at Arjuna’s scowl when he lost footing. Before Yudhishthira began smiling after each of Arjuna’s lessons. Before Karna appeared, brilliant and burning, to challenge everything they thought they knew.

Arjuna learned to parry by candlelight. Practiced forms in his dreams. Drona once caught him miming strikes against his own shadow, alone beneath the stars.

He trained with Bhima’s heavier sword, tied sandbags to his wrists, swung through rain until his arms trembled.

Once, when Drona caught him practicing by moonlight, the torchlight casting shadows like dancing ghosts, he asked dryly, “Why are you still up?”

Arjuna didn’t stop, “Because I still don’t like how it feels in my hands.” He paused, flashed a grin. “But soon I will.”

Drona didn’t smile often. But that night, he very nearly did.

-----------------------------------------------

Nakula was spying again.

He would call it “observing,” of course. For educational purposes. Strategic even. Definitely not “lurking under the shade of a pomegranate tree while your overly talented brother glowed like a demigod in motion.”

Arjuna was in the courtyard, training... Like always… Sword in hand, light on his feet, moving with that fluid, maddening grace of his. There was no other word for it. He made swordplay look charming.

It was the worst. Nakula sighed dramatically and plucked a guava from a nearby branch.

He didn’t hate how good Arjuna was- no one did. You couldn’t. It was like hating the sun for rising. But sometimes, just sometimes, Nakula wanted to throw a sandal at him. Lovingly. Supportively. A sandal full of affection.

He watched as Arjuna spun, then halted in a perfect guard position.

Perfect, of course.

“Show-off,” Nakula muttered fondly around a bite of guava. Arjuna looked up. “Nakula,” he called, without turning. “I can feel your glare from here.”

“Wasn’t glaring,” Nakula said, hopping off the low wall. “I was admiring. Huge difference.”

Arjuna wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “You’re always admiring me these days. Should I be concerned?”

“Only if it goes to your head,” Nakula quipped, strolling over. “Which it already has. In fact, your head’s so swollen, I’m amazed it doesn’t throw off your balance mid-spin.”

Arjuna grinned. “Careful, or I’ll make you spar with me.”

“Threats. How loving.” But Nakula held out his hand, and Arjuna, without hesitation, passed him the sword. Nakula staggered under the weight.

“Are you training with Bhima’s sword again?”

“I like the resistance,” Arjuna said casually. “Helps with wrist strength.”

“You need help?” Nakula asked sweetly. “After only four hours of training this morning?”

Arjuna rolled his eyes but smiled. “You wouldn’t understand. You were napping through most of it.”

“I was conserving energy. In case I needed to, I don’t know- rescue you from a particularly dramatic hair-related duel.”

“Once,” Arjuna groaned. “You bring it up once, and it haunts me for years.”

Nakula snickered, then shifted into a stance; feet shoulder-width apart, blade angled down. Not perfect. Not terrible either.

Arjuna stepped behind him and adjusted his shoulders. “You’ve been practicing.”

Nakula didn’t look at him. “A bit.”

“You could ask me to teach you.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Nakula mumbled. “You already train enough.” Arjuna blinked. “Bother me? Nakula, I taught a monkey to climb trees last week because you told me it looked sad.”

Nakula snorted. “You didn’t!”

“I did. You know I did!” Nakula turned, grinning. “Alright, fine. Teach me, O great monkey-whisperer.”

Arjuna mock-bowed. “With pleasure.”

They trained until the sun dipped low. Arjuna taught patiently, correcting with humor. Nakula asked questions. Snuck in jokes. Got whacked once with the flat of the blade for laughing too hard when Arjuna stumbled over a rock.

And through it all, Nakula felt something bubble in his chest, warmth. Not jealousy. Not even the need to compete.

Just the simple, honest desire to be good enough to stand beside his brother.

Not behind him. Beside him.

So that someday, on some battlefield or in some moment that mattered, Arjuna might look at him and nod, not because he had to, but because he meant it. Because Nakula had earned it.

At last, Arjuna clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re improving fast.”

“I’m charming,” Nakula said. “And secretly brilliant.”

Arjuna grinned. “Not so secret anymore.”

They stood together in the golden dusk, laughter fading into quiet. The sword felt lighter in Nakula’s grip now. Nakula raised the sword again, testing a stance. Arjuna adjusted his footwork without a word, smiling.

And just for a moment, Nakula imagined them side by side on a real battlefield someday; not as brothers trailing behind legends, but as legends together.

NAKULA THE PANDAV!!!!!

I'M WITH MY MAHABHARATA BRAINROT ERA GUYS, YOU CAN'T SCAPE FROM ME HAHAHHAHAHAHHA‼️‼️‼️

I abolutely LOVE MAHABHARATA, is my fave book and epic history guys. And currently i'm reading it, and something that always bothers me, was that literally all artist draw the 5 pandavas (the main protagobist of the epic) like EXACTLY the same 😭 when in the Mahabharata there is actuall descriptions of them. So I wanted to do my thing bc i'm an artist i'm a vaishnav AND I HAVE THE POWER OF THE PENCIL IN MY HAND🔥🔥🔥 so I will make the character design of the 5 brothers :3

Secretly, Sahadev thinks it is more likely that they were desperate to step into the world and out of the limits of a womb, but he does not tell her so, not when it makes her face look so much brighter.

Besides, he does like being around his brother. Nakul, who radiates joy and happiness; who, like their mother, seems to will plants to grow with a mere touch; who their pets liked to waddle to when scared; who is around him for so much of the day that he doesn't quite know which of them it it that tails the other.

Instead, whenever his mother tells them so, he simply nods and chuckles.

Besides him, his brother does the same.

************

His brother goes back again and again to the wounded horse, slowly, painstakingly pulls the thorns out of its body, even as it kicks at him wildly in desperation and pain.

Stop, stop, stop, he wants to scream, for he sees what it's doing to his brother, but his voice doesn't lend itself to screams. He can only watch.

Blood trickles freely down to the ground, from the horse's torn legs and from his brother's gashed up cheeks and palms, pooling into a puddle at their feet, dying the ground red.

Nakul doesn't seem to notice it. He will, later, when the rush has passed and he has snapped out of the single minded focus.

But there is so much blood.

He can only watch, but only until it is too much.

"Stop, please, stop," Sahadev begs, holding onto his shoulders and pulling him away, although he knows better than to disturb his brother when he is in such a trance.

"I can't, not now. Or it'll bleed out," comes a whispered reply from a voice already spent from coaxing the horse to let him help.

"If you don't stop, so will you." It's an exaggeration and he knows it, but there are bruises all over his brother's face and long gashes have been carved into his palm, and he knows no other way to put it all to a stop. "We will get it help, I promise. But please, stop."

Nakul does. Slowly, he lets his hands fall limp to his sides, and looks at him expectantly.

Sahadev takes the cue and runs to call their older brothers for help.

*************

The air reeks of sulphur, of burning flesh and human hair, of death. It lingers on his tongue like a horrible aftertaste and try hard as he might, it refuses to go away. His stomach turns at the smell, his head reels, and the smoke from the greedy fire slams at his eyes, tearing out the tears that his numb grief could not.

The fire hisses and cackles loud, hiding away his parents in its infernal embrace, consuming them whole.

And yet, he cannot tear his eyes away from the pyre- his father's pyre that would soon be his mother's too. He knows he should not, he knows he'll never be able to remove the image of the fire scorching away at his mother's still alive flesh, but he cannot bring himself to look away.

It is all he can do to force himself to stay rooted at the spot, to not run to the flames and attempt to get her out.

Please. Please. Please. Don't do this, Mother. Do not abandon us.

A pair of hands pull at him, and his brother turns his face away from the pyre with some force, allowing him to put all his weight on his own body.

"Don't look. Don't look, it's not something you want to remember," Nakul whispers to him through his own tears, even Sahadev knows with an unshakable certainty that he is doing the same thing.

"What if she sees me look away?"

His brother's frame hardens for a fleeting moment before he wraps his arms tighter around his shaking body. "She won't, don't fret."

She can't, is what he means. Of course she can't. She can't, because she chose to leave.

Sahadev buries his face into his brother's shoulders, and lets his tears fall freer, while a trembling hand runs gently through his hair.

When he comes back to his senses, three more pair of arms are around them, holding on for dear life.

I have so many thoughts about her!!!

For whatever reason, she had the idea to call upon the Ashwins together. Now, from one viewpoint, she has made Kunti quite angry and disappointed in her, which is not ideal. From the other, she has ensured that any child she has isn't the only odd one out in the family, which, to her atleast, might mean a sort of a safety net. Good for her, ig.

Shoka

The messengers that had been pouring in since the evening had told her, over and over again, that the Kauravas had been defeated.

They had won. They had won and righteousness had prevailed.

But the man who stood before her displayed no euphoria of victory. His was the face of a man defeated, a man who had been taken apart and crushed until nothing remained of him but a shell of his former self.

Never, never in her life had the fourth of her husbands looked as broken as he did now. The light in his eyes that had guided her through the darkness of her memories had been snuffed out; the only sign of life in them was the ceaseless flood of tears that trickled down his eyes. His hands hung limp to his side, no longer fidgeting with the object nearest to them.

He looked like he wished for the darkness of the night to engulf him whole.

The unease that had been bubbling in her chest gave rise to unmitigated, blind panic and she stumbled towards him.

"Panc-," his voice cracked, "Forgive me, Krishnaa."

She gripped onto his shoulders, her heart thumping with the agony of a vague idea that had taken a misty outline in her mind, "What happened?"

Nakul bowed his head till she could no longer look him in the eye, grasping for air as he spoke, "Ashwatthama broke in into the camp while we- the five of us- were away. He massacred them all, every last man in the tents. They fought back, but it was as if death itself had possessed him."

Every last man? Her brothers? Her nephews?

Her children?

Her hands drooped down of their own acccord, her vision went blurry around the edges, as her feet felt all too heavy to support the weight of it all.

That could not be right.

"Every man?" Her voice sounded all too feeble, too quiet to be heard amidst the strange buzz ringing in her ears. "Even the children?"

A pair of dusky arms held on tightly to her, steadying her amidst a world that no longer seemed fit to walk on, devoid of meaning, of colour and vibrance and hope.

"Everyone, Krishnaa," he finally replied in a voice choked, as a torrent of tears slid down her cheeks, "Even the children."

Blazing wildfires took shape in her lotus eyes, and a scream escaped her lips, hollowed and raging, cutting through the night's silence as her husband gently lowered her figure to the ground, even as his own body shook in ill- concealed grief.

She could not bring herself to care. She could only scream, once, twice, thrice, till she lost count and her throat came raw.

He pushed a pitcher full of cool water onto her lips. "Drink, dear. Please. It'll help, I promise."

The water pricked at her throat, but she dutifully drunk it down, if only to allay the fear so stark in his copper eyes.

He was her refuge from the storms that ravaged the world. He was the north star in her sky, always guiding her to hope even on the dreariest of nights. That was why he had been sent to relay the news to her, wasn't it? He was the very serenity of the universe personified.

Now, he looked lost too, as if drifting aimlessly through the unknown waters of the rivers that slowly rose above the surface of his body, drowning him in itself without him even knowing.

"I wish to see my children," she finally said through the veil of her undone hair hanging over her face, and he closed his eyes, "And then, I want their killer brought to justice."

When he looked at her again, the inferno in his eyes mirrored the flames in hers. He wiped away her tears, and an icy determination took root in his gentle voice, "He will beg for mercy at your feet, I promise you this, empress."

@theramblergal @pandavapanchaliweek

PandavaPanchali Week Day 4:

𝐍𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐋𝐀 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐃𝐈

⋆.˚🦋༘⋆

Often since their marriage, the most handsome prince of the Kurus and the Somaka princess find each other’s company in the garden. She’s broken the ice with the eldest, having listened to his excited information gathering while they sit privately. She accompanies Bhima in his culinary arts, and he in turn quenches all her odd cravings. Arjuna and her sit with Kanhaai and Bhama, the four now forming an inseparable quartet that is invincible to break in to.

However, the next of her lords and the goddess of the heavens are yet to find anything that may do that. It’s okay, the both of them say to their companions. Let her have her time. Let him be easy about my presence.

The fourth of the Pandava brothers unknowingly knits his brows together, distractedly inspecting a bright yellow marigold. Deva did not tell me how it went, the ice breaking. What do they bond on?

Krishnaa grins, caressing a periwinkle blue petal that goes on in the wreath she’s weaving. To put it in his hair, she had said, giggling, to a similarly mirthful Kunti. Such pretty wavy hair he has! Mother, do you think I can braid them sometime?

The gardens spread far and wide, ahead of their muddy hut. The dark forests are at a distance, fortunately, as Nakula would hate to have her blush pink feet trace the coarse paths. Speaking of Krishnaa, they haven’t shared much words ever since the wedding, just some small, timid moments filled with awkward periods of silence. The Madreya isn’t generally the quiet type, that is his twin. He is vocal and child-like, choosing to see the better side of everything. He sees what others fail to, others who fancy crying over spilt milk and not appreciating what they’ve been gifted with.

But, what do you say to a wife that is the embodiment of everything pulchritudinous he has ever laid his gaze on? Despite having many women swoon at his attractiveness, the prince does happen to be a bit coy when it comes to the opposite gender.

His wife, who is blissfully unaware of the dramatic monologues and soliloquies playing out in his mind, goes on to pick a piece of baby’s breath to fantasticate her wreath.

“You adore those flowers, don’t you?” Krishnaa’s wide grin displaying a perfect set of teeth spells trouble, or at least some sort of prank. Nakula just knows it. But he’s willing to play along, as long as she has that carefree smile intact.

The lord knows he despises anyone touching his hair. It takes time for it to gain its natural flair, you know? And it takes even more effort for it to not resemble Bhrata Arjuna’s nest of a thing he has on his head.

Her husband smiles, light brown eyes reflecting the vista ahead of them and then her own image— curious and cheerful. Then his smile widens and he leans back, an arm tucked under his head. “Yes, my queen. Especially blue lotuses; did I mention they put a restless heart to peace?”

The fragrant jasmine blooms in his calloused palms have taken the shape of two dainty earrings, he finds after a long while of floaty thoughts crashing into each other, resulting his cheeks to gain the red she so fancies.

Krishnaa flushes, ducking her head to hide from the glare of the solar god. Her giggles are even more amused and rightfully so— since when has the immaculate Pandava prince gained this cheesy humour?

Nakula joins her laughter, ducking his head too for her to put the finished piece of her art in. While doing so, she grazes the softness of them and they remind her of the castle’s silks and velvets. He tilts his head to look at her ethereal face, which is almost in awe of the beauty ahead of him.

‘Your heart is in mine, Madreya, how’d I not know how beautiful it is?’

‘I am all yours since I first heard of you, Yagyasaini, do you think I not know what is in your mind?’