#pandavas

अद्भुत बल, अटूट साहस और धर्म की रक्षा के लिए समर्पित भीम, महाभारत के सबसे पराक्रमी योद्धाओं में गिने जाते हैं। जानिए उनके जीवन, पराक्रम और गदा युद्ध की रोचक कथा।

📖 पूरा लेख पढ़ें:

Finally a competent adult.

I spoke too soon.

Duryodhan panicking. Nice.

My guy. Your brother has two punctured on his wrist and his skin's turning blue. Surely, you should know it's poison, given that you used it recently.

Shakuni being smart.

Yes Gandhari. Please teach the kid that murder is wrong.

The biggest lesson I learnt from the Mahabharata is this- do not make promises that bind you forever. In fact, don't make grand promises at all. Just do your damn job without fanfare.

Go Naga girlie go!

Nakul landing a critical hit. I'm so glad that for once I can tell the twins apart as kids. Because Star Plus did not make it easy for me.

I like this rendition of Bheem better. Not perfect, but much better.

Arjun truly is the most supportive person ever. He will go with his brother's stunts cuz it's funny.

Sahadev joining in.

Yudhishthir just letting his brothers have fun is so important to me.

One day, I would love to see an exploration of Dhritarashtra and Pandu's relationship. From the bits of pieces I remember, Dhritarashtra loved his brother. But the love was not enough to get rid of the resentment. And nor did it trickle down to his nephews. I kinda wonder if the Pandavas looked at their dysfunction and went, Hmm no. And became as close as possible.

Sometimes, one needs to be reminded that Bheeshma, too, is a person with feelings.

Ouch, low blow.

Also, why is Dhritarashtra calling him pitamah? That's his uncle bruh. Samuhik dada ji thode hai vo.

Sir ji, vo laddu nahi churaya. Attempt to murder tha vo. It ain't a reformative crime.

I'm going to hell for laughing but this is funny. "Niti kehti hai-" "Aaj tum aur tumhari niti kuch nahi kahenge."

Dhritarashtra had such a strange relationship with Vidur. One moment he's screaming at him, next he's sending out soldiers to call Vidur back because he got offended and left. Then he's being very affectionate. And repeat.

Yiiiieikes.

Twins doing damage control. But doing more damage. Lol.

Kunti knows one person ain't gonna lie. Tough times for Yudhishthir. 😭

Putramoh be real.

Karna is mentioned to be Surya dev incarnation right? And Vidura is incarnation of Yama raj and Yudhishthira is son of Yama raj.

So they can be indirectly said;

Vidura is Yudhishthira's father

Karna is Vidura's Dad.

Karna is Yudhishthira's grandfather.

Why was that not the last thing he told her?

At first, Abhimanyu did not understand that he was dead. He saw his body before he felt the absence of it.

It lay broken upon the blood-soaked earth of Kurukshetra, still and mangled beneath the dust of war. His body did not hold his soul, so, he felt no pain.

No weight in his chest. No burning in his limbs. No blood choking his breath. No arrows tearing through skin. No warriors closing in from all sides. No sound of chariot wheels, no conches, no cruel laughter, no shouted commands.

There was only him and silence. Only the strange, weightless feeling of being lifted from everything that had once made him human.

For a moment, Abhimanyu felt almost free.

He had done his best. His very best.

He had entered the Chakravyuha knowing only half its secret, and still he had gone. He had fought as a Maharathi. He had fought as the son of Arjuna, as the nephew of Krishna, as the grandson of Pandu’s line. He had fought for Badi Maa’s humiliation, for the insult that had burned through his family before he had even been old enough to understand the full shape of it. He had fought for dharma. For justice. For the world his elders had promised must be restored.

He had not shamed his father’s name.

There was a strange peace in it, a sense of liberation, of a promise kept. He had given everything he had. Every lesson. Every breath. Every ounce of courage in his young bones. He had spent himself fully, like an arrow loosed from the string, and now there was nothing left to hold back.

Nothing left to fear. And then his gaze fell upon the amulet.

It lay against his ruined chest, half-buried beneath blood and torn cloth. The thread had darkened. The small charm was cracked at the edge, but still there.

Uttara.

My dearest love, I should have told her I love her.

The peace inside him broke. He had not known marriage could be so brief and still leave such a wound.

Theirs had been a short marriage.

They had not had years to learn every corner of each other’s hearts. He had not yet memorized all her moods, all her fears, all the little things that made her laugh when she tried not to.

Yet there had been things he had just begun to learn: like how she liked her hair braided in the mornings, or which songs she hummed when she thought no one was listening, or what dreams she carried quietly inside herself when she looked at the moon.

Gods above, I love her.

He had loved her as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

My poor Uttara. My brave Uttara.

She had been so proud of him. That was what made it worse. She had stood beside him with her chin lifted, eyes shining whenever the songs of his valor reached her ears. Others praised him, and she would try to hide her smile, as if pride were something she could tuck away beneath her veil.

He had seen the fear too. The first time they had truly argued was after Uttar fell on the first day of war.

Her brother’s death had torn something open in her. Abhimanyu remembered the way she had stood before him, pale and trembling, refusing to cry until the doors were shut. Then she had struck his chest with both fists, not hard enough to hurt, only hard enough to show him that grief needed somewhere to go.

“You will all go,” she had whispered, voice breaking. “One by one, you will all go, and we are expected to stand here and be proud.”

He had caught her hands. “Uttara....Priye...”

“No,” she had said, tears spilling then. “Leave the warrior outside, where the war can have him. In this room, speak to me like my husband.”

The words had pierced him more deeply than any arrow. So he had held her. He had promised her he would be careful. He had promised her he would return.

And because songs of his valor had already reached her, because she had seen him train, seen him ride, seen warriors twice his age praise his skill, she had believed him.

Or perhaps she had wanted to.

That morning, the morning he died, she had held his wrist before he left.

He remembered it now with cruel clarity. Her fingers around his arm. The tremor she tried to hide. The amulet in her palm, warm from her touch.

“Wear this,” she had said.

He had smiled. “Do you think a thread can protect me?”

“I hope it will,” she replied, tying it carefully around him. “Or has my lord decided my prayers mean nothing?”

He had softened then, because how could he not? She had looked so young in that moment. It was just his Uttara, frightened by a morning that felt wrong.

“Times are not good,” she had whispered. He should have listened more carefully.

Instead, he had laughed gently, trying to ease the fear from her face.

This war too shall pass.

He had told her.

Those had been his last words to her.

He had been running late. His father was waiting. The army was moving. The world was rushing toward blood and duty and fate, and Abhimanyu, foolish Abhimanyu, had thought there would be another evening. Another dawn. Another chance to say all the things that sat quietly in his heart.

So he had pressed a quick kiss to her temple. A hurried touch: a promise without enough words.

Then he had run after his father.

Now he looked at the amulet on his broken body and wished with everything left of him that he had stayed for one breath longer.

I should have said more.

The regret rose in him, vast and unbearable.

I should have told her.

I should have told her that her eyes shine brighter than the stars the gods themselves shaped into the night. I should have told her that her kindness dwarfs all my valor, all my skill, all the glory men throw at my feet. I should have told her that when she smiles, I forget I was born for war.

He had not yet learned all the small, ordinary things that made her herself.

He knew she liked tending to the palace gardens in the early morning, before the servants came, when the dew still clung to the jasmine leaves and the world had not yet begun asking anything of her. She would kneel in the soil with the seriousness of a priestess making offerings, scolding the flowering vines for growing too wildly, praising the stubborn little herbs that survived heat and neglect.

Once, he had found her there with mud on her fingers and a smudge across her cheek.

She had looked horrified to be caught so plainly. Abhimanyu had thought she looked more beautiful than any queen in a jeweled court.

He should have told her that too.

He should have told her he loved the way she cared for growing things. The way she believed wilted flowers could be coaxed back with patience. The way she treated even the smallest living thing as if it deserved tenderness.

Perhaps that was why her fear had wounded him so deeply.

Uttara knew how fragile life was. He had been foolish enough to think courage could make him an exception.

I should have told her that the thought of our future made me giddy like a child.

A future.

The word hurt now.

He had imagined one, though he had never said it aloud. He had imagined returning from war with dust in his hair and victory at his back. He had imagined Uttara scolding him for some new scar, then touching it with hands too gentle for anger. He had imagined walking with her through palace gardens when no one needed him to be brave. He had imagined learning her properly, slowly, over years. Her laughter, her stubbornness, her favorite flowers. The way she would look holding their child.

Their child.

Something in him trembled. He had not known. Or perhaps some part of him had. Some quiet, sacred part that had looked at Uttara that morning and wanted to stay.

My love.

My wife.

Forgive me.

I thought I had time.

And if there was another birth after this one, another turning of the wheel, another chance granted by gods kinder than war, then let him find her again.

Not as a prince, perhaps. Not as a warrior.

Let him be born as something simple.

A gardener’s son with soil beneath his nails.

A bird nesting in the branches above her courtyard.

A deer drinking from the pond where she came to water her flowers.

Even a stray dog sleeping in the shade of her garden wall, if that was all fate would allow.

He did not care.

Only let him be near her.

Let him know her again in some quiet life untouched by war. Let him watch her tend to jasmine in the morning. Let him hear her laugh without fear behind it.

Let me grow old beside her, or fly above her, or curl at her feet in the sun.

Any life. Any form. If Uttara was there, if Uttara was his, he would live it gladly.

Again and again and again.

But as the battlefield slipped farther away, as his broken body became smaller beneath him, as the amulet glimmered once in the dying light, he held on to the only prayer left to him.

Let her know.

Please.

Let her know I love her.

Let her know I wanted to grow old with her.

Beneath my duty, beneath my vows, beneath every sacrifice I made for this war, I wanted a full life with her: until her hair turned white beside mine, until my teeth grew loose, until my hands forgot the bow but still remembered hers.

A life where I came home to her.

Category: Indian Mythology, Culture & History, Ancient Epics Read Time: 5 Minutes

The Kurukshetra War stands as a monumental epic of human history, a catastrophic conflict detailed in the Mahabharata that brought an entire civilization to its knees. While the central narrative of family betrayal, the fall of great heroes, and the philosophical discourse of the Bhagavad Gita are deeply ingrained in cultural memory, the tapestry of this 18-day war is woven with far more subtle, mystical, and strategic threads than most realize.

Beyond the clash of swords lie profound mysteries, logistical miracles, and quiet sacrifices that redefined the concept of destiny.

1. The Symphony of Eighteen: A Cosmic Blueprint

In the grand design of the Mahabharata, the number 18 operates not as a random variable, but as a deliberate cosmic signature. It serves as the structural foundation of the entire epic:

The Combat: The physical warfare on the battlefield spanned exactly 18 days.

The Philosophy: The Bhagavad Gita, the spiritual heart of the text, is contained within 18 chapters.

The Literature: The epic itself is meticulously cataloged into 18 Parvas (books).

The Scale: The combined military might totaled 18 Akshauhinis (military divisions).

The Aftermath: When the dust finally settled, only 18 primary warriors walked away alive from the slaughter.

In ancient Vedic numerology, the components of 18 add up to nine, representing completion, while the number itself is synonymous with Jaya (triumph). This recurring mathematical rhythm suggests that the war was never a chaotic accident of human anger, but a mathematically calibrated cosmic event.

2. The Logistics of Survival: The Culinary Precision of Udupi

Mobilizing an army of 18 Akshauhinis meant managing roughly 4.5 million individuals, alongside millions of animals. In any military campaign, supply lines and catering are a nightmare; keeping millions fed without creating massive waste or facing starvation seems impossible.

The solution came from the margins. The King of Udupi opted out of the physical combat, proposing instead to act as the grand chef for the entire battlefield. He promised that no soldier would fight on an empty stomach.

The true miracle, however, was his daily accuracy. Every evening, thousands fell in battle, meaning the headcount for the next day’s meals fluctuated drastically. Yet, the Udupi King never wasted a single grain of rice.

His secret? A quiet routine shared with Krishna. Every night, Krishna would snack on a handful of boiled peanuts. If Krishna consumed exactly ten peanuts, the King understood that ten thousand soldiers would not survive the next sunrise. By observing the divine consumption, the King adjusted his kitchen inventory perfectly ahead of time.

3. Sahadeva’s Forbidden Foresight (and the Ultimate Taboo)

Sahadeva, the youngest of the Pandava brothers, knew absolutely everything that was going to happen, including the war, the betrayal, and the ultimate victory.

How? When their father, King Pandu, was dying, he realized his sons wouldn't inherit his immense wisdom unless they consumed his physical body. Before passing, he asked his sons to eat his flesh. Only Sahadeva obeyed. He ate three bites of his father's brain.

With the first bite, he gained knowledge of the past.

With the second, knowledge of the present.

With the third, knowledge of the future. However, Lord Krishna immediately placed a curse/restriction on him: if Sahadeva ever revealed the future to anyone on his own accord, his head would burst into a thousand pieces. This is why Sahadeva remained the quietest Pandava, carrying the heavy burden of knowing the tragic fate of his family without being able to stop it.

4. Yuyutsu: The Dissident Brother

Popular memory often paints the 100 Kaurava brothers as a uniform collective of malice. However, one brother shattered that mold. Yuyutsu, born to King Dhritarashtra and a maidservant, possessed an unyielding moral compass.

Moments before the battle commenced on the first morning, Yudhishthira stepped between the two armies. He issued a final call, stating that anyone whose conscience compelled them to switch sides was free to do so.

Amidst a sea of millions, only Yuyutsu broke ranks. He drove his chariot away from his brothers and joined the Pandavas, choosing universal morality over tribal loyalty. He survived the brutal 18 days of combat. Decades later, when the Pandavas renounced their earthly lives to journey to the Himalayas, it was Yuyutsu whom they trusted to govern and stabilize the empire until the next generation came of age.

5. The Tragic One-Night Marriage of Iravan

Iravan, a master warrior and the son of Arjuna and the Naga princess Ulupi, volunteered to be sacrificed to Goddess Kali to ensure the Pandavas' victory. He agreed to lay down his life, but he had one final, heartbreaking wish: he wanted to experience marriage before he died.

Because he was doomed to die the next morning, no king was willing to marry their daughter to him for just a few hours of impending widowhood.

Seeing no other way, Lord Krishna took on his divine female avatar, Mohini. Krishna married Iravan, spent the night with him as his bride, and wept bitterly like a real widow when Iravan was sacrificed the next morning. To this day, this event is commemorated in Tamil Nadu (the Koovagam festival), where the transgender community marries the deity Iravan for a night and mourns his death the next day.

Perspective

(The Brothers of Indraprastha Series)

I was watching Chhota Bheem and found myself wondering...who does the mighty Bhima call Chhote? And well… this happened.

They were lost.

Bheema refused to admit it.

Sahadeva had already accepted it because he was wise.

And because this was not even remotely like the route they were supposed to be on.

They had not even been meant to travel together. The mission itself had been simple enough: escort relief supplies to a distant village struck by flooding, a request that had come, of course, from Hastinapur.

Bheema was still annoyed about that.

“They hate us, but still want our help,” he had grumbled the entire first day. “Next time, let Duryodhana carry sacks of grain himself.”

Yudhishthira, as always, had only said, “Our Karma should not choose sides, My dearest brother.”

Which was precisely the kind of answer Bheema disliked.

Arjuna would have come, he always did, but he had been called away to manage yet another disaster in Hastinapur.

Naturally, it was one of Duryodhana’s doing. Some petty argument with the prince of Kashi, something about pride and insult: something Bheema hadn’t bothered to remember the details. He rarely did, when it came to Duryodhana’s nonsense.

What mattered was the result.

Arjuna had to go to fix a mess that was never theirs to begin with.

“Naturally,” Bheema had muttered. “They break something, then ask us to fix it.”

Nakula had fallen ill the night before departure, nothing serious, Sahadeva had assured them, but enough to keep him from traveling.

And so-

it had been Bheema.

And Sahadeva.

An unlikely pair, according to everyone else. Perfectly reasonable, according to Bheema…though he would never say that out loud.

“These are not the hills we crossed this morning,” Sahadeva said calmly, adjusting the bundle on his shoulder.

Bheema squinted at the horizon. “They look the same.”

“They very obviously do not.”

“They are hills.”

“They are different hills. The ones we crossed had oak and Sakhua trees.”

“Pff…like you know all plants.” Sahadeva gave him a flat look. Oh yeah, He does. Bheema forgot his brother was bat-shit crazy.

…Right.

Bheema cleared his throat, entirely unbothered, and waved a dismissive hand before slapping the younger’s back with far too much enthusiasm.

“We are not lost, I’m certain this is the right way.”

“We are lost, Bhratashree. We have been standing at this very junction for the past three hours.”

“Like I said, this is the right way. Just not the short way.”

“That,” Sahadeva said mildly, “does not reassure me in the slightest.”

Bheema snorted and promptly dragged him into a rough headlock, ruffling his hair.

“Relax, Deva. You have to let things go sometimes. Let destiny flow. We needed this detour.”

“No,” Sahadeva agreed, voice perfectly even despite the assault. “What we need is a map.”

Bheema pulled back just enough to glare at him.

Sahadeva adjusted his shawl, expression unchanged. “Preferably one you intend to follow.”

“We had a map.”

“You ignored it.”

“Well, yes. It did not even show that village, you know, the one renowned for its mangoes. It was a rubbish map.”

Sahadeva let out a slow breath, attempting to free his head from Bheema’s merciless hold. “I cannot believe you just called a map made by the Treasurer of Madra himself rubbish. All for what? Mangoes.”

“Well, they were the size of your face, you little menace. Of course, we had to go.”

“and for what? We are now lost.”

“We are not lost.”

Sahadeva nodded once. “Of course. The unfamiliar terrain, the wrong vegetation, and the complete absence of the road are all clearly part of your plan.”

Bheema stopped walking.

Turned.

Pointed a finger at him. “We would not be on this longer route if you had not insisted on going to that cursed pond.”

“It was not cursed,” Sahadeva corrected, voice still maddeningly calm. “It was blessed.”

“It was full of leeches! A man even my size was a feast for those creatures.” Bheema gestured dramatically at his legs. “I have sacrificed my favorite dhoti to get you that stupid lotus, and you cannot even appreciate the most glorious mangoes in existence.”

Sahadeva sighed, long-suffering. “It was far from stupid, Bhaiya. That lotus blooms once every five years.”

“I nearly drowned in leeches.”

“You did not drown.”

Bheema scoffed. “And you were going to jump in after it yourself.”

“Yes, I was going to. And I imagine you would be more tolerable if I did so.”

“And I was just supposed to stand there and watch my brother get devoured?”

“I would not have been devoured.”

“You absolutely would have been devoured.”

“And you did not say no,” Sahadeva finished helpfully.

“I couldn’t say no.”

“That sounds like a you problem, Bhratashree.”

Bheema muttered something under his breath and looked away. Because of course, he hadn’t been able to say no.

Not when Sahadeva had stood there-calm, stubborn, entirely certain-and then, just for a moment, not certain at all.

Those eyes. Big, soft, quietly expectant- unfair, totally unfair...Like he already knew Bheema would say yes.

Bheema had seen that look before: on a much smaller face. A younger Sahadeva, barely tall enough to reach his arm, standing there with the same quiet insistence-never loud, never demanding, just looking at him like that.

Bheema had been eight then, already broad, already towering, and had sighed like the world had burdened him greatly before scooping the boy up in one easy motion.

“Fine,” he had grumbled.

Sahadeva had not smiled but had settled into Bheema’s arms like he had expected nothing less.

Bheema had been doomed from that moment.

It was no secret that the mighty Bheema was a complete loser when it came to his brothers.

Arjuna had done it too: those wide amber eyes, far too sharp even as a child, fixed on a target he was absolutely not supposed to be practicing on.

“I can hit it,” Arjuna had insisted, bow far too big for him, stance uneven but determined.

“No,” Bheema had said.

Arjuna had looked at him.

Just looked.

Five minutes later, Bheema was holding the target himself.

And pretending he hadn’t agreed to it.

Nakula was worse. So much worse, he had never even bothered pretending innocence.

He would grin- bright, mischievous, entirely aware of what he was doing, and Bheema would already be planning revenge.

Terrible revenge. Elaborate revenge and then Nakula would smile again… Bheema would forget every single plan he had made.

It was useless to argue. All of them had him like this.

Sahadeva… His Chhote never needed words. Never needed persuasion. Just those quiet, deer-like eyes, watching him like he already knew the answer. Bheema had never once proven him wrong, while Sahadeva never argued, never pleaded and just simply looked.

And somehow, that was worse. Bheema had never managed to learn how to refuse that look. He never wanted to.

So he had waded into that cursed pond without another word.

Spent an entire hour afterward pulling leeches off himself with the patience of a saint, he absolutely was not.

Ruined his favorite dhoti.

And for what?

A flower.

A  STUPID flower.

Bheema scowled harder.

…………………………………

By the time the sun dipped low, even Bheema had stopped arguing.

Mostly.

“We will camp here,” he said, dropping his pack.

Sahadeva glanced around. “This is not an ideal location.”

“It has ground, trees- and trees mean shade… and food. I am satisfied.”

“That is not the only requirement.”

“It has trees.”

“Those are thin trees.”

Bheema frowned. “Do not insult the trees for their modest build.”

Sahadeva rolled his eyes and dropped his bag with a thud. Bheema snorted.

Still, he set about making camp with practiced ease-gathering wood, clearing space, building a fire.

Sahadeva watched for a moment, then quietly joined him, adjusting small details Bheema would never notice, arranging things just so.

Between the two of them- It became something steady. The fire crackled to life. Bheema sat down heavily, stretching out his legs. “See? Perfect.”

He leaned back against a tree, one leg stretched out, the other bent, watching the flames with half-lidded eyes.

Across from him- no, not even across, because Sahadeva had somehow drifted closer without Bheema noticing - sat his youngest brother.

Fidgeting.

Bheema frowned slightly. Sahadeva did not fidget. He was usually still. Composed and quiet in that way that made others feel louder just by existing near him.

So, without a word, Bheema reached over, adjusted Sahadeva’s shawl, and tugged him closer, bundling him at his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sahadeva allowed it. Of course he did. Bheema watched him for a long moment.

“…You’re moving too much,” he said finally. Sahadeva stilled immediately. “I am not.”

“You are fidgeting.”

“I am not fidgeting.”

“You are.”

A pause. Then Sahadeva, very deliberately, folded his hands in his lap and went completely still. Bheema snorted. “…Now you look like a statue. That’s worse.”

Sahadeva did not respond. Instead, after a moment, he reached forward and picked up a small cloth from their pack. Without asking, he shifted closer-closer still-and nudged Bheema’s leg.

“Hold still.”

Bheema frowned. “What are you doing?”

“Your legs, Bhaiya,” Sahadeva said calmly. “They are beginning to resemble a lotus seed head. I would rather they did not.”

“Spare me your dramatics-”

“I would,” Sahadeva replied, already untying the edge of Bheema’s dhoti where dark stains had dried into the fabric, “but if you acquire any more holes, we may have to classify you as plant life.”

Bheema snorted. “I am not-”

“I would prefer you remain human,” Sahadeva added, as if that settled the matter. Bheema sighed, “…They are not that bad.”

Sahadeva did not look up.Bheema glanced down, and who was he kidding…It did look bad…. Disgustingly bad.

“Hai Prabhu,” he thought. “Was that pond breeding leeches for sport?” Bheema huffed but did not pull away.

Sahadeva dipped the cloth in a small bowl of water, then began cleaning the bite marks-gentle, precise, utterly unbothered by Bheema’s size or complaints.

He was smaller than the rest of them, not weak, never that, but built lighter. Sharper. Like something precise rather than overwhelming.

“…That’s it?” Bheema asked, glancing down.

“For now.”

Sahadeva tied the cloth with quiet precision, fingers steady, practiced.

“You’re welcome,” he added calmly.

Bheema snorted. And despite himself, he smiled.

The fire crackled softly between them. For a while, neither spoke. Sahadeva’s hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary, resting lightly against Bheema’s leg, as if ensuring the bandage would hold. Then he withdrew, folding them back into his lap.

Still. Too still. So,Bheema noticed.

Sahadeva’s gaze drifted back to the fire, but this time, he wasn’t really looking at it.

The fidgeting had stopped but the thinking hadn’t. Silence stretched and then, quietly, like it had been sitting on his tongue the whole time-

“…Nakula’s fever has not broken yet,” Sahadeva said quietly. “I received word from Dada.”

Ah. There it was. Bheema grunted. “It will. Illness runs rampant due to the reckless dive into the freezing lakes, you know.” That got the faintest flicker of something across Sahadeva’s face: uncertainty, quickly masked.

Bheema noticed. He leaned back against the tree, eyes drifting to the fire, letting the silence sit for a moment longer than usual.

Then- casually, like it wasn’t a change of subject at all-

“…That pond,” he said. “You didn’t go there just because it was rare, did you?”

Sahadeva went still. Bheema tilted his head, eyeing him. “What was it for?”

“…Nothing.”

“Liar.” “I am not-”

“You won’t even look at me.” Sahadeva’s doe brown eyes snapped to his immediately. Too quick, brows twitching.

Sahadeva exhaled, just slightly. “…It can be used to make incense,” he said at last. “The flower. When dried properly.”

Bheema raised an eyebrow. “Incense.”

“Yes.”

“For?”

“…Medicinal purposes.”

“Mm.”

“It helps with fevers.”

“Of course it does.”

Sahadeva nodded, a little too firmly.

Bheema stared at him.

“…Say that again.”

Sahadeva hesitated. Again, a small twitch at his brow.

“It helps with fevers,” he repeated, quieter this time.

Bheema leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grin widening.

“…You’re lying again.”

“I am not-”

“Yes am.”

“I am not.”

“You are absolutely lying.” Sahadeva pressed his lips together and the elder waited.

“…Nakula likes the scent,” Sahadeva muttered finally, Bheema blinked.

“…What?”

Sahadeva stared at the fire now, very intently. “He likes it. The flower. He mentioned it once. That it smelled… pleasant.”

A beat.

Then Bheema burst out laughing. Not a quiet chuckle: never that.

It came out loud, full-bodied, the kind of laugh that seemed to shake through him, shoulders rolling, head thrown back like the world itself had just told him the best joke it knew.

“You nearly got yourself devoured-” he started, still laughing.

“I did not…you did-”

“-in a pond filled with lethal leeches?”

“It was not just-”

“For a couple of nice-smelling flowers for Nakula?”

Sahadeva turned sharp. “Do not say it like that.”

“How should I say it?” Bheema wheezed, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Oh, Sahadeva, bravest of us all, risking life and limb for fragrance-”

“It was not-” Sahadeva’s eyebrow twitched.

“-for your twin-”

Sahadeva reached out and smacked his arm, whining like a kid he used to be before they came to Hastinapur, “Bhratashree.”

It did absolutely nothing, Bheema barely seemed to notice.

His arm, broad as it was, hard as carved stone, simply absorbed the hit as he kept laughing, entirely unbothered. If anything, it made him laugh harder.

Sahadeva watched him then. The way he leaned back against the tree like it had grown there just to support him.

laughter- so loud, so open-like nothing had ever taught him to hold it back.

For a moment, just a moment, Sahadeva almost smiled. Something in his chest loosened. The tightness he had carried all evening eased, just a little, pulled apart by Bheema’s sheer refusal to let anything sit heavy for too long.

Then it softened and faded.

“…Bhrata,” he said quietly.

Bheema’s laughter slowed, tapering off in uneven bursts before settling into a low, lingering chuckle. He dragged a hand through his hair, still grinning, still bright in a way only he could be.

“Hm?”

Sahadeva hesitated.

His gaze dropped back to the fire, fingers curling slightly into the fabric at his knees.

The words came slower this time. Careful and measured, always too thoughtful, his Deva.

“…It was not just that.”

Bheema snorted softly, wiping at the corner of his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, voice rougher now but lighter still, “I figured, idiot.”

There was no bite in it. Only familiarity and affection. Bheema leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees now, grin fading just enough to show he was listening.

“Go on, Deva.”

“It used to be one of the key ingredients in Mata Madri’s perfume.”

Bheema stilled, not sharply or too dramatically but just enough to let the atmosphere change.

“…What?” he asked, voice lower now.

Sahadeva didn’t look at him. “In Madra, it was rare. Difficult to obtain. But she liked it.” His fingers moved absently over the edge of his shawl. “Life in the forest was strict. Simple, I can imagine it was difficult for her. There was not much room for indulgence.”

He paused, drawing in a small breath. And for a fleeting moment, both of them saw her.

Like fragments that refused to leave, her soft voice humming them to sleep. The gentle weight of a hand smoothing their hair. The quiet warmth of being held without words.

Something distant, blurred by time, but still there.

“Life in the forest was taxing for her, but she allowed herself that one thing.”

The fire cracked softly between them.  “I do not remember her face.”

Bheema turned to face his brother with a snap of his neck.

“What?”

“Not clearly,” Sahadeva corrected, almost apologetically. “It fades. I try to hold on to it, but…” He shook his head faintly. “Every year, it becomes less.”

Bheema’s jaw tightened.

They had all been young, too young. Sahadeva, Nakula- barely old enough to understand what they had lost. Barely old enough to remember her as anything more than warmth and fragments.

Even Bheema’s own memories felt… incomplete at times.

He remembers in pieces. A gentil and teasing voice. Kind and loving caress. A fleeting image that slipped away the moment he tried to hold it.

Remembering hurt because it was never enough. Never enough to truly hold on to the beautiful woman their mother had been.

Sahadeva gave a small shrug, as if it were something ordinary, something inevitable. Then, almost absently, he reached out and poked at Bheema’s cheek-right where his jaw had gone rigid.

“It is what it is,” he said.

Bheema caught his wrist mid-second poke. “Don’t say it like that,” he muttered.

Sahadeva’s voice softened as it trembled when he spoke again, “…Nakula looks like her.”

Bheema exhaled slowly, gaze settling on the fire.

“Yes,” he said. “He does.”  In Nakula’s bright eyes and easy, radiant grace- the same soft beauty and quiet warmth Madri’s green ones had carried- lingered like a memory that refused to fade.

Sahadeva’s lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, but something warmer.

“I think…” he paused, choosing his words more carefully now, “I am the fortunate one.”

Bheema glanced at him.

Sahadeva continued, “I do not remember her face. Not clearly. But Nakula…” His gaze drifted, thoughtful. “Every time I look at him, I see her.”

A small breath.

“I do not have to remember. I just have to look.”

Bheema said nothing.

“I think,” Sahadeva added, almost to himself, “that is a kindness she left me.”

“And Nakula-” his fingers tightened slightly in his lap, “he will always have her face.”

“But he will not find her in mine.” Bheema’s gaze sharpened. Sahadeva looked back into the flames.

“I thought… perhaps I could give him that,” he said softly. “So he would not only see her, but remember her in another way too.”

The lotus. The damned leech-infested lotus. Bheema stared at him for a long moment. At this quiet, thoughtful, maddeningly selfless boy who never asked for anything and yet always found ways to give.

“…Idiot,” Bheema muttered. There was no bite in it. Sahadeva didn’t react. At his Chhote: quiet, stubborn, far too thoughtful for his own good.

“…I’m not saying Mata Kunti-” he began, quickly, almost defensive.

“I know I know-” Bheema cut in, firm and immediate. Sahadeva blinked as Bheema leaned forward, forearms on his knees, voice rough but steady. “I know what you’re saying. And you’re not wrong.”

Sahadeva’s fingers stilled. “I’m not comparing-”

“You don’t have to,” Bheema said.

“Deva… you don’t have to justify missing her. Remembering Mata Madri does not take anything away from Mata Kunti.”

The words settled heavily, but it lighten the load in Sahadeva’s heart.

“She raised all of us,” Bheema continued. “More than anyone should have had to. Fed us, fought for us, kept us together when everything else fell apart. But that doesn’t mean we forget the one we lost.”

Sahadeva looked at him then. Bheema didn’t look back. He kept his gaze on the fire.

“…I remember her,” he said.

Sahadeva’s breath caught, just faintly, as he looked at that stupid dumb smile on his brother’s face.

“She had the most brilliant laugh,” Bheema went on, voice softer now, “And the best storyteller, I swear. Softer than Mata Kunti… and she loved doting on us. Spoiled Arjuna and me rotten before you two were even born.” He paused, frowning slightly as he reached for something half-forgotten. “But you two-” a quiet huff of amusement slipped out, “-you were a handful. I suppose that’s when I saw a stricter side of her too. Still…” his expression eased, something fond settling there, “she never stayed strict for long.”

A small pause.

“She used to sit with you both in the mornings, before the rest of us woke up,” he added, voice quieter now. “I don’t remember if it was prayers or lullabies- but with her, it always sounded like one. She had the best voice.”

A small pause. “You’d just lean against her, like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

Sahadeva’s voice came out softer. “I… don’t remember that.”

“Yeah,” Bheema said, a faint huff of fondness in his voice. He lifted his hand, pinching his fingers together to show just how small. “You were about this big.”

Sahadeva snorted softly, eyes misting, and for a fleeting moment, the scent of lotus seemed to bloom in his memory.

“…We all miss her,” Bheema added, more quietly now. “I… I know I don’t say it out loud, but I do. I miss her.”

Sahadeva nodded slowly, swallowing a lump in his throat. “I know.”

Sahadeva looked at Bheema-his brother, a giant of a man, all strength and noise and certainty… and beneath it, something just as vast: a quiet, unwavering sincerity, and a love that never needed words to be understood.

“If you ever-ever-need someone to talk to about her… about father…” he said, voice rough, “come to me. Or Arjuna. Or Jestha. We don’t have much, but we were her sons too.”

“I’ll tell you everything I remember. Every little thing.”

He hesitated, then added, softer-

“And from what I do remember… I can tell you this much- she would be so, so proud of her two… Madra princes.”

Sahadeva’s breath hitched. He tried to steady it but failed. A suppressed gasp slipped past his lips, quiet, like something he had been holding in for far too long had finally found its way out.

“I just miss her every day.”

Bheema didn’t answer with words.

He shifted instead, reaching out to nudge Sahadeva’s shoulder: firm, grounding, familiar.

“I know, Deva,” he said.

That was enough. The fire burned lower, and the night grew softer around them. After a while, Sahadeva spoke again.

“…Do not tell Nakula.”

Bheema snorted faintly. “Why not?”

“He will never let me hear the end of it.”

“Hehe, Then I obviously have to tell him.” Sahadeva shot him a look. A proper glare: sharp, indignant, a little too earnest to be truly threatening.

Bheema only grinned wider. “…You’re threatening me now with that cute glare?”

“Yes.” Sahadeva gave him a look. “…I will tell him about the horse.”

Bheema froze. “…What horse?”

Sahadeva’s expression didn’t change. “His favorite one. The one with the… unfortunate haircut.”

Bheema scoffed. “It was not unfortunate. The hair was getting in its eyes.”

“You cut it unevenly. Even Dada laughed when he saw it.”

“Well, yes-” Bheema lifted his chin. “It has character now. Anyone can tell it’s Nakula’s horse.”

“Nakula almost cried.”

“He did not.” Bheema frowned. “Even he did, it's just hair…It will grow back.”

“Ah,” Sahadeva nodded. “Then perhaps I should tell Nakula who the artist behind the art was.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“I think I will.”

“Chhote-”

“He should appreciate your… artistry.”

“Stop.” Sahadeva almost smiled. Bheema groaned. “…Fine. We’re even.”

“For now,” Sahadeva said calmly. “…I saved you from leeches and this is wha-”

“And I am saving you from Nakula’s revenge.” Bheema paused, then nodded. “…That’s fair.”

Sahadeva relaxed, just a fraction. Bheema noticed. He shifted closer without thinking, one large hand coming up to cup the back of Sahadeva’s head, pulling him gently-easily-into his side.

“Come here,” he muttered. Sahadeva didn’t resist. Bheema reached for his angvastra, rough fingers surprisingly careful as he wiped at the faint dampness still clinging to Sahadeva’s lashes. The younger tried to swipe at the other eye himself.

“Stop that,” Bheema grumbled. “You’ll make your eyes red.”

“I am not-”

“You are.”

Bheema huffed quietly, adjusting the cloth around his shoulders, tucking it more securely- like he used to when Sahadeva was small enough to carry without effort.

A beat.

“…Still telling Nakula,” he added.

Sahadeva didn’t even look up. “I will tell him about the mangoes too. You didn’t save any for him. Bhratashree, you only gave me one.”

Bheema snorted. “Gods above, I will get you more.”

His thumb brushed absently across Sahadeva’s temple.

“…You cunning little devil,” he muttered.

“You giant baby,” Sahadeva replied.

Bheema grinned faintly.

(The Brothers of Indraprastha Series)

Hi! It’s been a while, I'm not dead!!!! Yayyy!!

I wanted to share a few one-shots I wrote earlier, exploring the dynamics between the Pandava brothers. So this will be a series I guess. Some might be Angsty, or Whumpy, or funny, depending on my mood. lol enjoy I guess.

Bheema had always believed that if you wanted to understand a man, you did not look at his face.

Faces lied. They smiled when they were tired, stayed calm when they were breaking, softened when they wanted to hide the storm underneath.

Eyes, perhaps, told the truth- but Bheema had never had the patience for riddles of the soul.

No.

You looked at their hands.

Hands didn’t pretend. They bore everything- every fight, every failure, every hour spent becoming something greater than you had any right to be.

And Arjuna’s hands…

Arjuna’s hands never learned how to hide.

It was one of those rare, suspiciously peaceful evenings in Indraprastha. No messengers. No arguments. No impending disasters. Bheema didn’t trust it, though.

Peace usually meant something was about to go very wrong, very soon.

Across from him, Arjuna sat cross-legged, entirely too calm for Bheema’s liking, restringing the Gandiva as if the fate of the world depended on perfect tension.

Which, knowing him, it probably did.

Just, mercifully, not today.

His movements were smooth. Controlled. Despite the evetnts of yesterday, they were annoyingly elegant.

Bheema narrowed his eyes.

"Are you planning to marry that bow," he said, "or will you look at your brother before the night ends?"

“I’m already married, Bhrata Bheema.”

“Mm. Yes. That’s never stopped you before, when you snooped poor Subhadra up in your arms” Bheema shot back. “The way you’re tending to that bow, I’m starting to feel replaced.”

Arjuna didn’t even glance up. “Jealous?”

“Of a piece of wood? Absolutely not.”

“First of all,” Arjuna said calmly, adjusting the string, “this is the Gandiva you’re talking about.”

“I said what I said.”

“And second, stop staring at me. You’ve been doing it for the last half an hour.”

“I’m assessing damage.”

That finally made Arjuna pause…just for a second.

“…To what?”

“To you,” Bheema said flatly.

That finally got Arjuna to look up—just briefly, with that infuriating little smirk. "I’m flattered."

"You shouldn’t be."

Bheema leaned forward and, without warning, grabbed Arjuna’s bandaged wrist.

Arjuna sighed immediately. “Here we go.”

“Let me see.”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

“It never is with you.”

Bheema ignored that and flipped his hand over anyway.

And there they were.

The same scars. The same thickened skin. The same stubborn proof that Arjuna had spent his entire life pushing himself far past what was reasonable—or necessary.

Bheema paused, his thumb pressing lightly over one of the rougher calluses.

Arjuna’s fingers smelled faintly of sandalwood: freshly treated, then.

Good.

At least someone had the sense to tend to them.

Bheema’s grip tightened just a fraction as he inspected them, eyes narrowing.

“…Hmph.”

“They’re fine,” Arjuna said, already sounding tired of this.

Bheema ignored that too.

They weren’t crooked. Like they were yesterday, Bheema shudders at his memory.

Bheema clicked his tongue. “Still the same old ugly thing.”

“They’re called hands, Bheema. Most people have them.”

“Most people aren’t idiots.”

Arjuna huffed. “They’re fine.”

Bheema snorted. “I’ve seen better-looking claws on the demons you were so busy showing off against yesterday.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Arjuna shot back, dry. “Next time I’ll make sure my hands look prettier while I’m saving your life.”

“They’re not fine.” Bheema cuts in.

Arjuna finally glanced up, eyebrow raised. “You have calluses from swinging a mace like you’re trying to rearrange the earth. Why is this suddenly a crisis?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I don’t go around breaking my fingers doing something spectacularly foolish.”

Arjuna let out a disbelieving laugh. “Foolish? We were surrounded by demons.”

“And I was handling them.”

“You were punching them.”

“It was working.”

“You got thrown off a cliff.”

Bheema paused. “I was in the air for a brief moment. Stop exaggerating.”

“You were unconscious before you hit the ground.”

“Blah, blah, blah. I was awake-”

Arjuna shook his head, finally setting the Gandiva aside. “I had to jump after you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You were falling into a ravine.”

“I would’ve landed.”

“With what? Your skull?”

Bheema grinned. “A very strong skull. Mata dropped me on a rock when I was a newborn: the rock broke but I was perfectly fine.”

Arjuna snorted. “Yes, I can tell you were dropped as a child, Bhrata. No questions there.”

Bheema smacked the back of his head for that.

“Watch your tongue.”

“You started it,” Arjuna complained, rubbing the spot with an exaggerated wince.

“And yet,” Bheema continued, entirely unbothered, “here I am... stuck with an idiot of a brother with broken fingers because you decided to be dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Arjuna scoffed. “I caught you mid-air.”

Bheema huffed, looking away for a brief second.

It had been impressive.

The distance alone- Arjuna had crossed it in a blink, cutting through demons like they were barely there, and still had the presence of mind to catch him before he hit the ravine.

Ridiculous.

Show-off punk.

Bheema wasn’t about to say any of that out loud.

Instead, he snorted. “You made a whole performance out of it.”

“With one hand,” Bheema added, eyeing his fingers again. “Like a fucking idiot.”

“I didn’t have time to consider better options! How was I supposed to hold on to the cliff then?”

“You have plenty of Astras. Heck, you had plenty of time to let me fall and make a heroic speech later.”

Arjuna, rolled his eyes, “That is not how this works.”

Bheema snorted. “You broke your fingers holding onto me.”

“I did not break them-”

“Yeah...They bent the wrong way,” Bheema cut in a mocking tone. “Sounded like dry twigs snapping.”

“That happens,” Arjuna said with a shrug. “We both know I heal fast. See?”

He lifted his hand right up to Bheema’s face, wiggling his fingers.

“They aren’t even crooked.”

“That is not a reassuring statement.”

Arjuna tried to pull his hand back again. Bheema didn’t let him.

“You never let them heal properly,” he muttered, quieter now.

Arjuna rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “What do you want me to do? Sit out the next battle? Braid flowers with Nakul while you go get yourself thrown off another cliff?”

“At least Nakul would appreciate the effort.”

“And critique my technique.”

“He’d absolutely critique your technique.”

“He critiques everything.”

“Because you’re bad at things that aren’t archery.”

Arjuna gasped, scandalized. “That is slander,” he declared, making a whole performance of it: hand to chest, wounded pride and all.

Bheema just chuckled, low and fond despite himself.

His Phalguna. His headache.

A beat passed.

Then, softer- gruff, almost hidden beneath the teasing-

“…Don’t do that again.”

Arjuna stilled, just for a moment.

He didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t pull his hand away either.

Instead, he tilted his head, eyes glinting faintly. “Then try not tumbling off cliffs,” he said lightly, “and I’ll consider keeping my very precious fingers straight.”

Bheema snorted. “Precious, he says.”

“They are. You rely on them far more than you admit.”

“I rely on me.”

“And who keeps saving you when you get thrown off mountains?”

"It was one time", Bheema bumped his shoulder.

They bumped shoulders again, neither pulling away.

The bickering lingered, easy and familiar, settling into the quiet like it always di, like it always had.

Because this...this was them.

Yudhishthira, who had just arrived, watched them with a small, knowing smile.

These two were not just his brothers. Not just his warriors.

But the spear and the shield of the Pandavas.

Yudhishthira held Dharma like a flame: steady, unwavering, the kind of righteousness kingdoms were built upon.

But Dharma alone did not win thrones.

Dharma needed teeth. It needed a force that made men think twice before testing it.

And that-

that had always been them.

Bheema, who could break mountains and men with equal certainty.

Arjuna, whose arrows never missed, whose focus carved order out of chaos.

Together, they were the promise behind Yudhishthira’s crown.

The reason his justice could exist at all.

The reason the Kauravas did not simply take what they wanted.

Fear had a shape, in those days.

Sometimes it was a mace.

Sometimes it was a bow.

Sometimes it was Bheema’s bare unruly fist, or Arjun’s intelligent wit.

Most often…

it was the two of them, standing side by side.

Unmovable. Unstoppable. Untamable.

Ridiculous.

The Samrat could think of no better word when it came to these two.

“Stop looking at them like that,” Arjuna muttered, trying again to pull his wrist free.

Bheema leaned in closer, squinting with exaggerated scrutiny. “Hai Bhagwan… they look worse up close. Like overcooked roots left out in the sun.”

“Yet, they’ve offended my eyes. I’ve seen my ingrown toenails look better than this.”

Arjuna physically recoiled. “Ew-Bhrata! Why would you say that?”

“It’s accurate.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“They look wretched. Have you ever seen bent sugarcane after someone chewed on it wrong?”

“They do not-”

“They do.”

“They absolutely do not-”

“You’re in denial.”

Arjuna glared at him. “They will heallll.”

“They betterrrrr,” Bheema muttered, still squinting at them like they had personally wronged him.

“Panchali is never going to hold your hand again,” Bheema continued, shaking his head gravely. “Tragic. Truly tragic.”

Arjuna stared at him. “They are bandaged and- again, for the tenth time....healing. And stop saying nonsense. Panchali will absolutely still hold my hands.”

“Subhadra will cry if she sees these,” Bheema added thoughtfully. “You’d better keep them hidden.”

“Oh, for the love of—they will heal,” Arjuna said, dragging the words out slowly, like he was explaining something painfully obvious to a very stubborn child.

“They better.”

“They will.”

“They better,” Bheema insisted.

Arjuna exhaled sharply. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re careless.”

“They will heal,” Arjuna said again, firmer now. “Or I’ll fix them myself.”

Bheema blinked. “What does that even mean? Do you want them to heal or get worse?”

A soft chuckle slipped into the quiet.

Both of them stilled.

“…Jeshtha?” Arjuna said, turning.

Yudhishthira stepped forward, amusement still lingering in his eyes.

“I am certain,” he said dryly, “that between the two of you, the entire forest has been… thoroughly handled.”

Arjuna coughed, looking away. Bheema grunted.

Yudhishthira’s smile deepened just a fraction.

“Panchali has been looking for you both for the past hour.”

That-

That made them straighten.

“Oh,” Arjuna said.

“…Ah,” Bheema added.

Yudhishthira nodded, entirely unsurprised. “Yes.”

A beat.

Then, with quiet fondness-

“Come along. Before she decides to come looking for you herself.”

Arjuna winced. Bheema snorted.

“And stop fighting,” Yudhishthira added mildly.

“We’re not fighting,” they said at the same time. Yudhishthira gave them a look.

And just like that…

the terror of their enemies,

the strength behind a king,