#uttara

She is the youngest child of Virata and Sudeshna, and burdened with much more than what is her fair share of troubles.

When Arjuna, as Brihannala, convinces Virata to employ him as the dance teacher for Uttara, her friends and her attendants, she quickly becomes taken by him and begins to develop a crush of a kind.

This, personally, doesn't seem too out of pocket, since as a teenager stuck in a royal family, Arjuna is one of the very few people outside her family that she is allowed to interact with freely, and she forms somewhat of an attachment.

Arjuna, too, is good to her, and they, in that one year, develop a deep friendship that does not seem completely eclipsed by the familial relationship that they later find themselves in.

Draupadi, however, understandably, stuck in the worst position out of the six of them in Virata's household, grows a little jealous of Uttara and Brihannala's easy camaraderie.

Functionally, it is hardly anything more than a teenage crush, but Draupadi's brain, irritated with her situation and having no other intellectual outlet, begins to compound the issue into something bigger than it needed to be. Thankfully, though, this spiral too never goes out of hand, and she is able to limit herself to only some sarcasm directed at Arjuna every now and then.

When Duryodhana attacks Virata's city, and Uttar refuses to go himself to request Brihannala to drive his chariot, Draupadi very sarcastically suggests that he send his younger sister because, "Oh, Brihannala will never turn her down!"

Vyasa does substantiate a part of Draupadi's suspicion here when he immediately goes on to describe Uttara as the elephant-bride running to the elephant that is Arjuna.

Arjuna, too, seemingly somewhat tolerates this crush; maybe even enjoying her attention a little bit, as he addresses her as 'mrigakshi' [doe-eyed], 'bhaamini' [flirtatious woman], 'sundari' [pretty woman] and 'sakhi' [friend]. She, too, in turn, makes grand proclamations of how she might hurt herself if Brihannala doesn't do as she says.

Uttara then proudly follows Arjuna as he walks up to Uttar, ready to be his charioteer. Even then, Arjuna doesn't let up on the opportunity to make Uttara laugh, as he pretends not to know how to wear the armour given to him, until Uttar, tired of this, comes down to help him.

However, the matter of Uttara's age here is immediately reinforced, as is the inappropriateness of whatever, if at all, is going on behind the scenes, as Uttara asks Brihhannala to fetch the Kaurava warriors' uttariyas for her dolls. After the war, Arjuna himself goes to Uttara to show her all the uttariyas they grabbed for her.

After that war, after the Pandavas reveal their identities to the court of Virata, when Virata suddenly suggests marrying Uttara to Arjuna, we see Yudhishthira immediately straighten up and glare at Arjuna.

Arjuna, too, is embarrassed, mostly because he knows that while he hasn't exactly ever encouraged Uttara's crush, he also has never actively discouraged her. Now, that could be because of his compromised position on account of his disguise of a non-binary person employed by this girl's very powerful father, but the fact of the matter is that whatever it was that had not gone entirely unnoticed.

Arjuna, therefore, stands up and insists in many ways that Uttara has confessed many secrets, considering him to be her dear friend, and thus, he would not take advantage of that trust and tie her to himself on a technicality. Instead, he offers Abhimanyu, the boy who is from his side, a mini-Arjuna that he can give to Uttara instead.

Their marriage is unfortunately overshadowed by the preparations for the war of Kurukshetra. She hardly even gets to spend a single night with her new husband, since Abhimanyu is far more interested in the war than in romance.

However, after the war, we see Uttara embrace Abhimanyu's corpse and loudly recount the few sweet memories that she had managed to steal away from his routine of war. She recounts how Abhimanyu always waved to her and called out to her whenever he saw her, even when he was busy. She takes off his armour and lies down in his arms, not caring if anyone judges her now, talking incessantly as if her husband were still alive. She is even afraid for a second that in the time that it takes her to get to heaven, Abhimanyu might become besotted with some apsara and forget her; they are both so young after all.

The war begins about six months after her marriage, and it ends tragically, as we know. She handles it quite better than expected, as she, instead of breaking down immediately, concentrates more on consoling Subhadra. Even as the war ends, the attack on her does not stop, and instead, she is singled out for one last attack by Ashwatthama, who seeks to deal a fatal blow to the Pandavas and Krishna.

Irrespective of what Ashwatthama might have done, Uttara's son is born premature, in the sixth or seventh month, and it takes Krishna a lot of fight to ensure that the baby survives.

Uttara, even in the middle of this, keeps telling Krishna that Abhimanyu always told her that she'd have a boy, and that his uncle Krishna would love the baby like no one else, that he would grow up in Dwarika just like Abhimanyu himself, and that's the faith Uttara puts in Krishna as he performs some kind of an operation on the baby.

It is unclear what happened to Uttara after the birth of her child. For the sake of Parikshita, I hope she did not kill herself after Vyasa brought the dead warriors 'back to life' for a night, like many of her peers.

What did my father call me when I was younger?

As Arjuna plunged into the abyss, he heard his brother Bhima's voice calling out to him, the last desperate cry for him to hold on. His other brother did not even spare him a glance. The son of Yama merely uttered the cold truth- his most fatal flaw- and continued on his path to enlightenment.

The jagged edges of the mountain tore through his skin, each impact sending shocks of pain through his weary frame. Yet pain was nothing new to Arjuna; it had been a companion in every chapter of his life. Now, at the end, it felt almost like a solace door waiting to open, leading him to where his Madhav stood with open arms.

The spinning world came to a stop. His back lay against the unforgiving earth, and his eyes, tired yet unseeing, beheld the pristine blue sky above. The blues reminded him of the ocean surrounding Dwaraka, and the clouds reminded him of the waves Krishna had once commanded with laughter in his voice. The clouds hung still, like the frozen crests of those very waves.

Had I always been Arjuna?

No I think he had called me Krishnaa.

What was the name of the book that Sahadeva and I debated over a lifetime ago?

Among all his brothers, Sahadeva had been his quiet solace. Bhima and Nakula carried an energy that demanded attention, but Sahadeva was the stillness in the storm. The two of them, introspective in their ways, had navigated chaos with shared glances and unspoken words. Though, when the time came, they were the very sparks that ignited mischief.

Despite his calm demeanor, Sahadeva possessed a wit sharper than any blade. When Yudhishthira once sought his advice on moral dilemmas, he had responded, "Try not to gamble your kingdom next time." The entire hall had erupted into laughter- everyone except Yudhishthira, Of course.

His youngest brother, with unparalleled knowledge, is his gentle, kind Deva. He used to be the tiniest baby, with chubby hands always reaching toward his untamable curls. One smile from his youngest brother, soft and fleeting, like a timid ray of sunlight peeking through clouds, could melt Arjun's heart like utter softening under the sun's warmth. His brother carried the heavy burden of knowing the future

I hope we can still talk about your favorite poems and lament the foolishness of the world around us, just like we did when we were young- perhaps somewhere beyond this realm.

Nakul, have I ever told you that your laughter was enough to lighten the darkest of days?

Nakul, the charmer, the peacemaker, the one who never failed to make Arjuna smile even when grief held him captive. His younger brother was more than his renowned beauty; he possessed a rare kindness, an understanding of emotions as deep as Sahadeva's understanding of logic.

Perhaps it was why animals were drawn to him. The wildest of creatures-horses, birds, even stray dogs-flocked to his side as if they could sense his untamed heart, one free of malice. Bhima had once joked that Nakula could win wars simply by leading an army of beasts.

After Abhimanyu's death, Nakula approached Arjuna in the gentlest, most thoughtful way. He tended to small things, like polishing Abhimanyu's weapons or leaving food by Arjuna's side when he wouldn't eat. "I can't imagine your pain, Bhrata, but I do know this-Abhimanyu adored you. Every time he spoke of you, his eyes shone brighter than the sun. He would want you to keep fighting, to honor his memory. He'd never forgive me if I let you give up." Nakula's quiet, persistent care reminded Arjuna that he wasn't alone in his grief, even when words failed.

Thank you for always cheering me up. I hope you'll still be there to annoy me when it's my turn to join you.

Bhima's bear-like embrace- when was the last time I held him?

Bhima, his elder brother, his shield, his greatest rival and ally. They had turned everything into a competition: who could shoot faster, who could run farther, who could lift the heaviest weight. Bhima, who laughed the loudest, fought the fiercest, and loved the hardest.

Bhima, who always teased Arjuna when he won, saying, "Even the greatest archer can't outmatch my strength," and Arjuna would retort, "Strength is nothing without precision, brother."

On the battlefield, they had been an unstoppable force. Bhima would clear the path like a storm, and Arjuna would follow, striking with precision. Together, they had been a force of nature, their synergy unmatched. Yet Bhima, the mighty warrior, was also the one who cradled children in his arms, who told the wildest tales of war, exaggerating every detail just to hear the laughter of his loved ones. "The asura was as tall as three mountains!" I roll my eyes every time.

How could I have ever doubted the love in his heart? I would give anything for just one more embrace.

Jesth Bharata... I never meant those words I said that day.

When their father died, Yudhishthira wiped Bhima's tears, held Arjuna for hours as he wept, and consoled the twins as they witnessed their mother step into the fire. After that, he tended to the rishis, ensuring they were fed, and took on the immense burden of handling the funeral rites with a composure no child his age should have had to bear.

For years after, Yudhishthira was their father. The one who guided them, the one who worried over them, the one who bore the weight of duty so that his brothers would not have to. He smoothed their fears with his steady voice, his hands firm but kind upon their shoulders.

Arjuna wondered- had Yudhishthira ever been a child himself? Had he ever been allowed to stumble, to make mistakes, to cry without the weight of responsibility forcing him to wipe his own tears before anyone could see?

Perhaps that was why fate had been so unkind to him, why Dharma itself tested him in ways none of them could comprehend. Because Yudhishthira had never been allowed to fail and learn from it- he was expected to be right, always. A flawless king, a righteous man, an unwavering guide.

But Arjuna knew the truth. Knew that behind the wisdom, the patience, the seeming detachment, there was a man who had once been a boy- one who had carried too much for too long, whose heart had been burdened by expectations too heavy to bear.

And Arjuna, in all his righteousness, had failed to see it until it was too late.

Jesth Bharata, forgive me.

Abhimanyu, what did your smile look like, my son?

His dimpled face, radiant like the moon, the sparkle in his eyes that held boundless curiosity and mischief. He had smiled just like his mother- soft yet unwavering, with an innocence that belied the warrior's blood in his veins. His laughter had been the sweetest melody Arjuna had ever known, echoing through the halls of Indraprastha, in the courtyards where he trained, in the soft glow of evening when father and son sat side by side, speaking of battle, honor, and dreams of the future.

Arjuna remembered the first time Abhimanyu had held a bow. The boy had been so small, barely able to pull the string, but determined, nonetheless. "One day, I will be like you, Pitashree," he had said, his voice bright with conviction. Arjuna laughed, adjusting his son's grip, ruffling his curls. "You will be greater, my son," he had promised.

But fate had stolen him away too soon. His pride, his greatest joy, had been left broken, surrounded by enemies, trapped in a web of deceit and cruelty. And Arjuna- mighty, victorious Arjuna- had not been there to save him.

Would he be waiting for him, just beyond this life? Would he rush toward him, grinning as he always did, bow in hand, eager to show his father how much stronger he had become?

Or would he look at him with quiet reproach, asking the question Arjuna had asked himself every day since that cursed battle- Why weren't you there?

Subhadra, did I ever tell you that your smile reminds me of our son?

His wife, his fire, his fiercest the princess who had taken the reins of her fate as easily as she had taken the reins of his chariot that fateful day. She had not waited to be rescued, nor had she hesitated when he held out his hand. She had laughed, eyes alight with mischief, wind whipping through her hair as they rode away, her knowing smile promising that this was only the beginning of their story.

He could still see her as she had been that day, unafraid, radiant, free. And when Abhimanyu was born, Arjuna saw her again in their son- in the crinkle of his eyes when he laughed, in the tilt of his head when he listened, in the sheer, unstoppable will that burned within him. He had her fire, her stubbornness, her boundless warmth.

But had he told her enough? Had he ever whispered to her in the quiet of the night how much she meant to him? That beyond war and duty, beyond victories and losses, it was she who had given him his greatest happiness?

Did I tell you enough, Priye? That I loved you since the moment I first saw you? That I loved you even more in every moment after?

Panchali, my fire, my queen- how could I ever have deserved your love?

From the moment she placed the garland around his neck, he had been hers. Not just by fate, not just by duty, but by the quiet pull of something deeper, something undeniable. She had chosen him, and yet, had he ever truly been worthy of her?

His most beautiful, fiercest, wisest wife. The one who had stood unbroken through every storm, who had faced humiliation and war with her chin held high, who had been the strength none of them had deserved, the strongest amongst them all. She had loved him despite his absences, despite the distances between them, despite the battles that had taken him far from her. She had been his fire, his fiercest advocate, his harshest truth. And yet, how many times had he let her down?

He had won her hand, but had he ever truly won her heart? Had he ever given her all that she had given him? Did she know, in the quiet moments, when duty did not weigh upon them, that he saw her? Not just as a queen, not just as the mother of his children, but as his Draupadi- the woman who had laughed at his arrogance, who had met his gaze without fear, who had walked beside him, always beside him, even when the world had turned against her.

Draupadi, tell me my love- how can I ever be worthy of you?

Uttara, my child, my daughter in all but blood.

Did I ever tell you that you were the daughter I always wanted to have and so much more?

He had watched her grow from a bright-eyed girl who once looked up to him with admiration, calling him Guru, to a woman who bore the weight of tragedy with a quiet, unyielding strength. The day Abhimanyu fell, she had not wept before others. She had carried his child within her, and for his sake, for the son who would never meet his father, she had stood unbroken, even when the world around her crumbled.

You were barely more than a child when the war stole everything from you. I watched you stand in the ashes of a shattered world, carrying life within you while drowning in grief. And yet, you endured.

I should have protected you, should have spared you from this pain. But you, my brave girl, bore it with a quiet strength that humbled even warriors.

You were always meant for joy, not sorrow. If only the gods had been kinder.

Did I ever tell you how proud I was of you?

My sons- brave, noble, gone too soon.

The best of us lived in you. Prativindhya carried your mother's fire, Sutasoma had Bhima's fierce heart, Shrutakarma bore my own stubborn will, Satanika was Nakula's sharp mind, and Shrutasena was Sahadeva's quiet wisdom.

You were not just our children- you were the promise of a future we would never see. You fought like lions, defended your home like true Kshatriyas. And yet, you were slain in your sleep, denied even the honor of a warrior's death.

How cruel fate is, to take our brightest stars before dawn.

Pitamah... Did you ever forgive me?

The man who had once held him as a child, who had taught him to wield a bow before he could even walk properly, now lay upon a bed of arrows- his own arrows.

Arjuna still remembered the firm grip of his Pitamah's hands as they corrected his stance, the deep voice that guided him through his first lessons, and the rare smile that softened his otherwise unyielding features when his young grandson struck his mark. Bhishma had been a fortress, an unshakable pillar of Hastinapura-until the day he fell by Arjuna's hand.

Arjuna had always known this battle would come. But he had never imagined what it would feel like.

He had fired those arrows with trembling fingers, his heart screaming even as his duty commanded him forward. Each shot had been precise, each strike had been devastating. But no matter how sharp his aim was, nothing could dull the pain in his chest.

"Pitamah," he had whispered, kneeling by the bed of arrows. "I-"

Bhishma had only smiled, weary yet serene. "You did well, my son," he had said, as if none of it- none of the war, the pain, the broken family- mattered anymore. But Arjuna could not take solace in those words. He wanted to believe them, wanted to believe that Bhishma had truly meant them. But how could he, when the sight of his grandfather, his teacher, his elder: pierced and broken by his own hands, haunted him even now?

Did you ever forgive me, Pitamah? Even if you did, I do not know if I can ever forgive myself.

Acharya, Did I ever make you proud?

From the moment I first held a bow, it was your voice that guided my hands. Your lessons shaped me, your praise lifted me, and your approval became my greatest pursuit. More than a teacher, more than a master of warfare, you were like a father to me.

I gave you my everything. I trained until my fingers bled, until my arms ached from drawing the bowstring a thousand times over. I surpassed every challenge, met every expectation, and honed my craft with a devotion unmatched by any of your disciples. And in return, you called me your greatest student. You assured me that I was the best, that no one- not even your own son- could rival me.

But tell me, Acharya, did you ever truly mean it?

Was I your pride, or merely your sharpest blade? A weapon you forged with care, but never love?

I told myself it didn't matter. That your approval, your teachings, your guidance were enough. That your distance, your unwavering gaze fixed on your son, did not bother me. But on the battlefield, when I stood before you as an enemy, I saw the truth.

You looked at me not as a son, not even as a beloved student, but as a mere warrior standing in your way. And yet, when you fell, when you closed your eyes for the last time, I could not help but wonder-did some part of you, even for a fleeting moment, think of me as yours?

Acharya, you were a father to me. But was I ever a son to you?

Mata... did I ever tell you how much I missed you?

Kunti, the mother who shaped them all, the woman whose love was as fierce as the storms she endured. She was the first person to ever hold him, to ever whisper his name with pride, to ever soothe his childhood fears. He remembered the way her hands, calloused yet gentle, ran through his curls as she sang lullabies that carried the weight of ages.

He used to watch her in awe as a child- how she carried herself, how she stood tall even when fate stripped everything away from her. She never wept where they could see, never faltered where they could hear. Her strength was like the unyielding earth beneath his feet-always there, always holding them up, even when it cracked under its burdens.

And yet, he wondered... did she ever long for a moment of softness? A moment where she wasn't a queen, wasn't a mother, wasn't duty-bound- just Kunti?

She had raised them with fierce love but also with lessons that often tasted bitter. Her decisions had shaped their fates, made them stronger, but also left wounds too deep to ever truly heal. There had been times he resented her, times he wished she had chosen differently, times he wished she had been gentler with them. But as he grew older, as he carried his own burdens, he understood. She had done what she thought was right-what she had to do.

And then there was Karna.

Arjuna's breath caught in his chest at the mere thought of him. The shadow of a brother he never got to know, the warrior who should have been by his side but instead stood against him. The man he had hated, fought, and finally killed-only to learn the truth when it was far too late.

For years, anger had burned in his heart like an unrelenting fire. But now, as he lay upon the cold rocks, it was not anger that remained- only sorrow. Had Karna ever wondered, even for a second, what it would have been like to stand with them, to be one of them?

Would things have been different if Kunti had spoken the truth earlier? Would it have changed anything at all, or was fate too cruel, too unyielding to ever let them be brothers in this life?

The last time he saw Kunti, she had been walking away. Choosing exile, choosing to leave them behind along with Dhritarashtra and Gandhari. He hadn't understood it then, had barely spoken a word when she made her choice. But now, as he lay battered and broken upon the mountains, he understood. She had given everything for them- her youth, her happiness, her very being. And in the end, she had simply wanted rest.

Mata, did you ever find peace? Did you ever forgive yourself?

Because I forgave you a long time ago.

Madhav-was I ever truly Arjuna before meeting you?

You were my charioteer, my guide, my anchor when the world threatened to sweep me away. You were my laughter in moments of quiet, my wisdom in moments of doubt, my Sakha in every joy and sorrow. Without you, was I ever truly Arjuna, or was I just a shadow of the man you once steadied?

Do you remember, Madhav? The nights in Dwarka when we raced our chariots under the moonlight, laughing like reckless children? When we sat by the ocean, watching the waves kiss the shore, speaking of things too great for even kings and warriors to understand? When you stole my crown mid-battle, just to scold me for my pride, and I could only shake my head because, as always, you were right?

Do you remember, Madhav, that morning in Vrindavan, before the weight of kingdoms and war lay upon our shoulders? When I woke to the sound of your flute, its melody weaving through the golden light of dawn, and found you perched beneath a tree, eyes closed, utterly at peace? I had never envied anyone more than I did in that moment. You belonged to the world, yet you were entirely your own.

I had asked you, "Do you ever tire of always knowing more than the rest of us?"

And you had only smiled. "Do you ever tire of always striving to be more than yourself?"

I had scoffed, pretending to take offense, but we both knew the truth. You understood me better than I ever did myself.

Do you remember the battlefield, Madhav? When my hands trembled, my heart wavered, and you caught my wrist, steady as the earth itself? "I am here, Parth," you had said. And that was all I needed to fight.

And when you left- oh, Madhav, how did you expect me to stay? How was I to go on in a world where your laughter no longer rang in my ears, where your words did not pull me back from the abyss?

I have walked through fire, wielded my Gandiva against gods and men, lost my son, my kin, my very soul- but nothing, nothing, has ever undone me as much as your absence.

Will you be waiting for me at the end?

Arjun's breathing slowed, and he felt his strength all but vanish out of his once invincible body. 

But Arjuna had died long before his body ever fell.

He had died the day he placed his grandsire on a bed of arrows. He had died the moment he first saw his son's lifeless body.

Truly, he had stopped living the day his Madhav left him.

Because what was left for him in a world where Krishna did not walk?

Somewhere along the years, through war and bloodshed, he had always known- he would not die on the battlefield. Despite his name being synonymous with it, despite his life being defined by it, war had never been his final fate. His end was meant to be something quieter, something lonelier.

In the mountains, where he breathe his first, and now will breathe his last.

As he fell, the jagged rocks tearing through flesh and bone, his life did not flash before his eyes in a blur of bloodstained memories. No, instead, he saw the moments that had made life worth living.

The first time he held a bow, the wood smooth beneath his hands, his heart hammering with certainty: this was his calling. Pitamah's hand rested on his shoulder, firm yet gentle. "Steady, Arjuna. A warrior's hands must never tremble." And in that moment, with Bhishma's unwavering faith in him, he had never felt stronger.

"You remind me why I became a teacher, Arjuna," Guru Drona had said, resting a hand on his head, after the first time he struck the eye of a moving target. Just those words, simple and rare, had meant more to him than any title or prize.

The way Subhadra had laughed when she took the reins, wind whipping through her hair as they rode into the night.

The way Draupadi had looked at him that day in Kampilya- steady, knowing, fierce- as if she had chosen him long before she ever placed the garland around his neck.

The gleam of mischief in Nakul's eyes before a prank, the quiet steadiness in Sahadev's when he spoke truths no one else dared to say.

The warmth of Bhima's crushing embrace, the rare gentleness in Yudhishthira's touch when he wiped away his brothers' tears before shedding his own.

Abhimanyu, grinning, dimpled, bright as the sun itself, his little hands trying to pull the string of a bow far too large for him.

And then, there was Madhav.

Laughing beside him in Dwarka as they raced their chariots under the moonlight. Sitting by the ocean, speaking of things too vast even for warriors to comprehend. Catching his wrist in the midst of war, steadying him with nothing but the weight of his presence. His god. His very soul. 

He had been so tired for so long. 

His eyes fluttered open one last time. As the world around him blurred into light, a familiar voice, warm and teasing, cut through the silence.

Arjuna was his father's favoured student who was involved in the shameful and unlawful murder of Dronacharya.

It doesn't matter if Arjuna was better skilled or not. Ashwatthama would not openly praise those involved in his father's murder. He would debunk their might, would see the fact that they used weapons that his father taught them to wield to end his life as an insult to his revered father.

Remember, on the last night when he slaughtered the Pandava forces, he was Rudra given form. Mahadev himself took form in Ashwatthama to end the Pandava Army, to balance the scales. That is why Krishna never tried to save the rest. His goal was to wipe out all those who knew the celestial weapons and used them as and when they pleased.

Ashwatthama 's sin was when he gave into his wrath and murdered Uttara's unborn child. It shouldn't have happened and that was why Krishna stepped in.

All these years meant that Ashwatthama would genuinely have regretted and repented Parikshit's murder at his hands. The rest? Absolutely not. In his mind they were well deserved, meant to happen. Just a shame that the Pandavas themselves were spared that day. But it wasn't meant to happen so it didn't.

The truth about Karna and Arjuna is something only the gods themselves know. But the movie, I believed remained true to character by making that claim through Ashwatthama, because he would not consider Arjuna worthy of praise.

U T T A R A ' S. D I A R Y

As the war approached, hope was the last thing I could latch onto. Everything felt like a dissolution - conches were like the shrill cry of a grieving mother, the clash of blades was a reminder of what's to be lost, and the galloping horses were like happiness and hope snatched away as the world chose between dharma and adharma.

As if hope didn't exist, fate snatched my husband from me - cruel and fateful, they called it. Whispers of soldiers and elders had numbed me like no other - he was alone when he fought seven other Maharathis, they said - it pained my heart to lose him, not because I loved him but because my child would never know the love of a father.

Truth be told, I don't know why I grieve the man I called my husband till a few moments ago- I want to die and move along with him. What if he finds love elsewhere - would I be forgotten?

Legacy is fickle.

Womanhood is painful.

And expectations -

Expectations were the root of heartache.

My marriage was strange, my father first proposed me as an alliance to Gurumaa Brihannala (it's weird how I can still not call him my father-in-law Kaunteya Arjuna; he's still the teacher who taught me the tender balance between an artist and a warrior); Gurumaa being ever graceful rejected the alliance calling me his daughter and instead proposed that if the alliance had to be carried forward, then they could go ahead with it if my father agrees for the marriage between his son Abhimanyu and me.

My father agreed in an instant; no questions or opinions were asked.

I was simply informed that Samryagni Krishnaa, now revealed to me as Malini Maa, braided my hair as always.

I remember my mother enthusiastically planning the wedding as the war loomed.

It feels like aeons ago when the palace of Matsya Desha bustled with guests from around the world who forged alliances in the guise of a wedding celebration.

I was perhaps like a coy bride who stole glances at her husband between the rituals while he was perhaps unbothered.

Was that the first sign that he didn't see our marriage beyond politics?

Was I expecting too much?

The giddiness never left me. On one end, I was happy to be around my favourite people-Gurumaa Brihannala, Malini Maa, and Vallabha. On the other hand, I spiralled into a world that denied me the happiness of a marriage I built my world around.

------------------ The above is an excerpt from my book Aparachita Rajakanya on Wattpad.

Aparachita Rajakanya follows the story of Amrita Bharadwaj, the descendant of Pandava Arjuna and Dronacharya, who must encounter the twist of time and fate when the ages of Dwapara and Kali converge during a series of mystical events. It's a reimagination of the Mahabharata in a fantastical world and alternate universe.

Also, here's the snippet that inspired the diary entry.

"Despite seeing you slain in the battle, I am still alive. O tiger among men! You have gone to the world of the ancestors. In a gentle and smiling voice, which beautiful one will you greet there, as if she were I? In heaven, there is no doubt that you will crush the hearts of the apsaras, with your great beauty and your smiling words. O Subhadra's son! When you attain those auspicious worlds and meet the apsaras and spend time in pleasure with them, remember the good deeds that I did. O brave one! You were destined to spend only six months of your life with me.73 In the seventh month, you have confronted your death.' As she is speaking these miserable and pointless words, the women of the Matsya king's74 lineage are pulling Uttara away."

Anutapah (Lit.) Grief

|Uttaraa Drabble|

Uttaraa glanced at the flickering fire of the diya. Normally, she would rush to save it from the wind, but now she had neither the energy nor the hope to do so. Her father always said that she was the light of their kingdom and that her name suited her perfectly.

Uttaraa bitterly chuckled at the irony - the light of the kingdom was now not burning.

She was young but not naive; she knew that her marriage was just a political strategy. Her father wanted to be close to the mighty Pandavas, and the Pandavas wanted military strength for the war.

Uttaraa remembered how she first met her husband, Abhimanyu. He was radiant, engrossed in a deep conversation with his brothers. His curly hair, his gentle smile - everything about him was like a magnet that drew her in.

Six seasons, or one year, was all she had with him. He left her far too early.

He smiled a goodbye before leaving for the battlefield. He had asked her to rest well for the health of their baby - their first child. Uttaraa had grown up in a large household and dreamed of having a big family herself.

When she first discovered her pregnancy, she was delighted. She and her husband, her Naatha, were going to become parents. That night, she imagined her child would look just like his father - with the same curly hair and gentle smile.

The thought had filled her with joy.

Uttaraa glanced at the sleeping Parikshita in her arms. He looked exactly how she had imagined - just like his father. At first, the thought had delighted her.

But now, everything hurt. Looking at her infant, she cried silently, remembering her husband. Her Naatha.

Uttara: I only wish a sage would come and bless me

Kunti: A sage's blessing ruined my life.

Uttara: Huh????

Uttara: I want a prince to come carry me away

Kunti: A prince carried away my mother in law and she cursed him to die.

Uttara: What?????

Uttara: Poison is a woman's weapon

Kunti: Did I tell you of that one time my son's boy cousin tried to poison and drown him?