#prativindhya

Okay so, trying something completely out of my comfort zone: a contrapuntal poem! It's basically two separate poems that are joined together to flow multiple ways. You can read them in many different ways.

I have too many thoughts about this poem. Because I have too many feels about Prativindhya and Yudhishthira. This was also inspired by @friend-shaped-but's moodboard for Prati.

having a resemblance in appearance, character, or quantity, without being identical.

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TW: Mentions of fire

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Reminder: This is a work made from my own imagination, with inspiration from the actual itihasa, and not meant to hurt anyone's sentiments.

Thank you.

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Unedited: you've been warned.

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The sons of Draupadi were always told they looked like their fathers- but they weren't identical. They had their own traits, but they greatly reflected their fathers.

That's why they were called the UpaPandavas, after all.

It had been a source of pride for them, to hear that they were like shadows of their fathers- some of the greatest warriors to walk on earth.

It had been a source of comfort for them, growing up, to see similarities between them and their fathers in the mirror in their absence.

They'd got countless remarks on that. Perhaps, accompanied by a pat on the back, a hand ruffling their hair, or an arm swung around their shoulders, along with gentle chuckles, teasing giggles or roaring laughter.

Their fathers had always doted on them; and how similar their sons were to them, and yet, still had a charm- perhaps, that was the work of their uncles.

Whenever their mother would see them, she'd always pout and remark how they barely got any of her traits, but in the end would always end up showering them in affection.

But for the first time, it is a source of pure agony for everyone, as their tent is being engulfed in fierce flames.

For the first time, they wondered, why did their have to be so similar to their fathers.

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जय सीतारामलक्ष्मण की!

Hello!!!! :D

I hope y'all liked this piece- it's my first one to do with the Mahabharata!!

I had a particularly hard time figuring out the title for this one, but I am quite satisfied :D

I've been having extreme brainrot for the past few days, and I saw some content on the Upapandavas and *whoosh*- would you look at that, an idea :D

I think I can improve on it- so I may come back to edit it sooner or later but we'll have to see ToT

I hope y'all enjoyed this piece- and as always, constructive feedback, criticism and comments are always appreciated and they mean a lot to me! <3

Its fairly short, I know, but I swear I'm making longer stuff which is coming up TvT

Stay safe, healthy and hydrated<3

hope y'all have a good day/evening/night!

The first time Yudhisthir met his son after exile, he didn't recognise him. Prativindhya had grown, from the boy who stomped his feet and yelled that he wanted the sweetest fruits. He has grown from the boy who was obsessed with the colour gray and always rubbed his eyes sore at the sun. He had grown so much.

"My son!" He wants to cry,"My first son, my only son, my darling son." But it's not true, it never was.

(Yudhishthir was a father as soon as he put fire to his father's pyre.)

No, father can be alive, let us check his pulse again!—No, Mother doesn't need to leave, we can ask Mahadev for a boon!I won't eat if you need me to!—I promise to never cry!—I promise I won't speak for years!

Prativindhya helps Krishna with the plate of fruit he's carrying with a smile. He's young, his boy, and yet so serene. Yudhishthir hates himself for taking away his childhood like his father took his.

(Father! Come back, please, I can't live, take me with you, please, please, please, ple—)

Prativindhya wears his hair the same way Balram does, shorter than most and with no partition in his hair, slicked back. His waves are all Panchali, curling like live fire. His eyes have changed, they're lighter. There's some scars on his skin, residue chandan behind his ear.

He wants to laugh hysterically. Of course, his son learnt from his klutz of an uncle. Bheem complained of sweat too much and chandan was the only thing that kept him quiet.

(That and now, his anger.)

Prativindhya glares at his younger brothers until they stop squabbling amongst themselves before he greets them. Nakul sneaks a teasing glance at Yudhishthir that is ignored entirely.

Prativindhya collapses in his arms the second he embraces him and Yudhishthir almost wishes for his spear to run someone through. His son. His darling son, so young, barely a man grown and so, so cracked within.

Yudhishthir knows a broken boy forced to become a man too soon when he sees him. He sees him everyday in the mirror, in his brothers, and now his son. He cradles the back of Prativindhya's neck in the same way he did when he first held his boy and his son melts.

"I will protect you," he promises to his son in a whisper harsh and primal and something savage that only comes from living in the forests as much as he has. "Nothing will happen to you. I will tear down any pain that comes your way, my son."

Prativindhya doesn't reply. He hides his face in his father's neck like he was a child again.

(A child you are, and a child you will be, my son. I ruined your childhood, I will spend my life repenting.)

That was the last time they embraced before the day Yudhishthir held his dead son in his arms. Face in neck, arms too tight around him and the back of his neck bowed.

In the meeting:

Prativindhya: So what will we do if any of us die during the war.

Abhimanyu : We place the corpse in such a way that it looks like its dabbing

Sutasoma : Wow that makes sense.

Aravan : agreed.

“We won’t be gone long,” Father promises, and this does nothing to curb Prativindya’s displeasure, because he is thirteen, and almost grown, and still has yet to see any of the world save Indraprastha. The City of Elephants might not be much, for that matter, promising no more than even more aunts and uncles and great-uncles to fuss over one; but at least it should be a start. He is furious to be denied it.

The others don’t much mind, since they are scarcely infants; Srutakarma yawns and says, “It’s only dice, you know. What could be more dull?” so that Prativindya must roll his eyes at him and Sutasoma, who is almost as dice-mad as Father, throw his half-eaten mango that way, so it all turns into an undignified sloppy brawl between brothers until Abhimanyu, who hates discord, holds his breath until he turns purple as a distraction. 

That occupies Prativindya most of that afternoon, and the even the next day, but he cannot shake the thought from his mind: I should have liked to have gone.

“We won’t be gone long,” promises Father, clad in bark, dark and different against his skin. Prativindya wants to half-laugh, half-sob, and wonder aloud if Father knows what long even means. 

He will be twenty-seven, a man grown, by the time Father returns.

Thirteen years ago, Krishna had taken Dhrishtadyumna and Shikhandi aside and told them in no uncertain terms that they would not be taking out their anger of the Pandavas on their sons. Thirteen years later, Shikhandi takes them aside and looks them in the eye, telling them with pride, and a hint of warning that their boys have changed and grown into men. Nakul knows why his tone holds warning, even if the others may not get it. He gets the message loud and clear.

They have changed, and you are not to fault them for that.

So he doesn't.

He just observes.

He observes Draupadi's brothers run into the room, Yudhamanyu and Uttamaujas running to her and each of them grabbing one of her hands and pulling her ahead to join the rest of them. They're twins, just like him. She's a twin, just like them. Just like half of Panchal's sons. Kumara and Panchalya tackle her in a bear hug, with Prince Satyajit shouting 'careful, careful' in the background. A rare exclamation of joy, rarer in these years, slips out of her mouth when she sees a laughing Shikhandi and a softly smiling Dhrishtadyumna. She shakes off her younger brothers and runs to them. After all, they are her favourites.

With her husbands, she cannot afford to have favourites. With them, she cannot be free. She is always their wife, their queen, and although she gets love in both Panchal and Indraprastha, she gets freedom only with her brothers. It reminds him of himself, a memory flitting across his mind of rambunctious young boys, one getting him in a headlock, another trying to pull it apart, one leaning tiredly against the wall and yet another pulling him to join his brothers. Call him soft-hearted, but his heart always clenches when she laughs freely, like she hasn't done for so long, and that can only be done with her brothers.

But then, from behind them, her sons show up. He observes Kalyani tear up, hands on her mouth, and how Prativindhya is quick to put an arm around her and pull her close and wipe her tears. He towers over her now. He'd always wondered how his second-eldest nephew was doing. A part of him had died after that day, and Nakul feared it wasn't coming back anytime soon. He'd always been close to his mother. Sutasoma and Shrutakarma, he notes, are probably crying more than her, and his heart does a little flip-flop. Shatanik is stone-faced, thoughts flitting through his mind and flickering in his eyes, but his mouth doesn't betray any of it. He looks calm, and absently, Nakul murmurs, 'you've changed, duckling,' and promises himself never to say that out loud. The children are painfully aware of that fact, they don't need to be told. But when she hugs the four of them, Shatanik looks up, caught in the moment as if a deer in the headlights, and then hugs all of them, shifting them and almost picking them up with the force of his hug. Nakul shakes his head in fond exasperation. He had never been good at showing people he loved them. And being trained by the Parshatas would have exacerbated that. But it was alright, he knew how to read emotions from the slightest curl of a fist, the minutest furrow of eyebrows, and the tiniest twitch of an eye.

He observes Prativindhya, turned away from his father, his face painted with slight disgust and his hands crossed. He observes how Sutasoma is quick to swallow, unsuccessful at hiding the lump in his throat, his eyes murky with the film of tears on them. He sees Bheem look at him for only a moment before nearly crushing his son in a hug, picking him up like he was feather-light and asking him about his health and his food and what he'd been up to. He sees Shrutasen stand stiffly as Sahadev looks at him, really looks at him, both of them so stiff and awkward it makes him want to tease his brother and push them closer for a hug. But he knows Shrutasen was barely eleven when they left, and does not know how to interact with a man he scarcely remembers. He also has more important things to do, namely, seeing his own son.

This time around, Shatanik observes him. He's rough around the edges, and his arms on his father's and he is intently looking at him, his eyes narrow and searching. "I've missed you kid," he says, gruffly. He does not call the man in front of him duckling. He does not feel he would like that. Shatanik nods. "Same," he whispers.

But Shatanik's eyes keep darting across the room, and he turns to look. The sight makes a deep, deep discomfort buried within him resurface, and he rolls his eyes at how predictable his brother is being. Shrutakarma is ecstatic to see his father. After all, Yudhamanyu must have told him a lot of stories.

But Arjun has walked right past him to see Subhadra and Abhimanyu. Arjun probably doesn't even realize what he has done in his excitement. But Shrutakarma walks off to stand in a corner, downcast. The action had been done, whether voluntarily or involuntarily, and Shrutakarma cannot see intentions. He can only see effects. But despite all that had happened, Nakul smiles. He remembers the kid.

He remembers a five year old, running through the stables with Shatanik and the stablehands running behind him and stopping only when he came to the strange horses Krishna had given him. He remembers Shatanik listening to him patiently as he rattled off about each of them, his face alight with joy and excitement. Nakul looked at the two of them, how their eyes seemed to search for each other in a crowded room and deduced that he had continued being loyal to Shatanik, and Shatanik, in turn had morphed his patience into a fiery protectiveness.

Shatanik guides him over to his youngest nephew and Nakul just smiles and opens his arms. He bites back a gasp at how quickly Shrutakarma comes to him and hugs the poor boy back. Shatanik rests a hand on his brother's back, and a thin smile splits his face. Nakul drags him into the hug, pressing his head Shatanik's neck, taking a deep breath and smiling to himself. Vindhya and Shatanik are taller than his brother and him respectively. Shatanik awkwardly pats his shoulder.

Shatanik needs time, he senses. To come to terms that this is real. There is a lot going on behind that large forehead, and it needs to settle before his son comes to him.