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It was a calm evening in Indraprastha. Golden light spilled across the stone floors as the five brothers gathered in the courtyard, taking a rare break from war councils and weapons training.
Yudhishthira had decided it was the perfect moment to read aloud a philosophical letter from a wise sage, because of course he had.
Bhima was lying on his back with a fig in his mouth, with Nakula braiding his hair without trying to hide how bored he looked. Arjuna leaned on one elbow, absently toying with a piece of grass, and Sahadeva sat upright like a curious owl.
Yudhishthira cleared his throat with great ceremony. “The sage writes: ‘Speech, dear sons, is the true mirror of the soul. One should always weigh each udderance with care—’”
A beat of silence.
Arjuna slowly tilted his head. “…Udderance?”
Bhima sat up very straight. “UDDERANCE?” Nakula’s voice cracked.
Yudhishthira blinked, frowning at the scroll. “Yes. Udderance. The sage writes-”
Sahadeva had his hand over his mouth, already trembling. Arjuna squinted at the scroll. “Bhrata I think the sage meant utterance.”
“Udderance is… much so cow related, I though, even I don’t know if such words really exist” Sahadeva offered helpfully.
Bhima choked. “He’s asking us to weigh our cow-speech with care?”
Nakula fell over. “We must milk our wisdom before speaking, brothers-!”
Yudhishthira’s face had gone scarlet. “That’s not what I- Clearly a mistake on my-”
Bhima doubled over, wheezing. “The next time you give a speech, shall I bring a bucket, O Noble Cow-King?”
Even Arjuna, trying very hard to be respectful, was shaking. “We must moo with meaning, not mutter mindlessly.”
Nakula, barely breathing: “You udderly misread that scroll.”
Yudhishthira dropped the letter and covered his face with both hands. “I’m going to disown all four of you.”
Bhima collapsed sideways into Nakula, giggling like a boy again. “Moo-st you, brother? Moo-st you?”
“Stop it,” Yudhishthira groaned. “Stop right now.”
But no one did. Not even Draupadi, when she passed by moments later and asked what was going on.
And that night, someone (Sahadeva) secretly added a small cow doodle to Yudhishthira’s ceremonial speech scroll.
He noticed it two days later and said nothing.
But he knew.
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.
"You just couldn't wait to see me again, Parth."
The halls of Hastinapura had seen countless battles, both in the court and on the training grounds. They had witnessed the thunderous steps of warriors, the hushed whispers of conspiracies, and the resounding laughter of carefree princes. But on this particular afternoon, the halls bore witness to something truly unforgettable-something that would go unspoken in formal gatherings but live on in the hearts (and suppressed laughter) of the Kuru princes for years to come.
It all started, as many disasters did, with Bhima.
The young Pandava, already a force of nature at his age, had just been dismissed from his lessons along with his brothers and cousins. The elders-Bhishma, Guru Drona, and Shakuni-were leading the way down the long, grand staircase that connected the higher halls to the central court. It was a staircase worthy of its royal residents: steep, wide, and polished to a near-miraculous shine by the tireless palace attendants.
And, as it turned out, far too polished.
Bhima, unwilling to walk like a normal human being, decided to sprint up the last few steps. Why? No one knew. Perhaps he was racing an imaginary opponent. Perhaps he had just remembered that lunch was being served soon. Perhaps he was simply Bhima.
Regardless of his reasons, the results were catastrophic.
The moment Bhima reached the top, his sandal betrayed him. It slipped-a treacherous, traitorous little movement that sent his foot skidding out from under him. The great warrior-to-be flailed, arms windmilling, desperately grasping for anything to steady himself.
Fate, ever the mischievous force, provided him with something.
Shakuni’s cloak.
For a brief, glorious second, Shakuni was not a man.
He was a spectacle.
One moment, he had been walking with his usual air of practiced elegance, his fine robes flowing behind him as he engaged Bhishma in conversation. The next moment-he was airborne.
His feet lifted clean off the ground, his arms flailed, and his mouth opened-but no words came out, only a stunned, undignified gasp. His turban, that ever-present symbol of his regal composure, tilted precariously to one side.
And then, gravity remembered him.
Shakuni descended.
Not gracefully. Not heroically. Not with the composed dignity of a statesman. No, he rolled.
His long cloak, the very thing that had betrayed him, tangled around his legs, turning what might have been a simple fall into a grand, tragic performance. His staff, once held with the poise of a master strategist, clattered ahead of him, announcing his descent like a herald announcing a king’s arrival-except this king was tumbling helplessly down a flight of stairs.
First, he lurched forward. Then, he twisted midair. Then-thump, thump, thump-down he went, step by step, his arms flapping wildly in a last, desperate attempt to regain control of his fate.
The grand staircase of Hastinapura had never seen such an event before.
And it would never, ever see one like it again.
At the top of the stairs, the young Kuru princes froze.
This was a moment of great crisis.
Not because Shakuni might be injured-no, that was secondary. The real crisis was not laughing.
Duryodhana and Arjuna made the fatal mistake of looking at each other. Their expressions, which had started as carefully composed masks of concern, cracked immediately.
Nakula and Sahadeva stood as still as statues, the effort of holding back their laughter written all over their faces. Sahadeva was biting his tongue. Nakula’s shoulders were trembling.
And Yudhishthira-oh, poor Yudhishthira-looked as though he was suffering the torments of the gods themselves. His hands were clenched into fists, pressed against his mouth as he struggled desperately to maintain some semblance of dignity. His eyes were wide, pleading with the heavens for strength.
And Bhima?
Bhima, the root cause of this disaster, was trying to be the responsible one. He stepped forward, schooling his expression into what he probably thought was a look of deep concern.
“Shakuni Mama,” he said, in a voice that was just a little too strained, “are you well?”
It was a valiant attempt.
Unfortunately, his voice cracked halfway through.
The effort to suppress their laughter reached its breaking point. Duryodhana’s lips twitched. Arjuna coughed violently. Nakula turned away, pretending to examine a very interesting section of the wall.
The entire hall was silent.
The ministers, the soldiers, the attendants-everyone was holding their breath.
Bhishma, ever the composed patriarch, stroked his beard and nodded thoughtfully, as though he had just witnessed a fascinating philosophical lesson unfold before him. Guru Drona, to his credit, maintained his usual impassive expression, though his fingers twitched ever so slightly.
And then-Shakuni rose.
The fallen prince of Gandhara stood, slowly and shakily.
With the precision of a man who refused to acknowledge what had just happened, he adjusted his turban, straightened his robes, and calmly dusted off his shoulders.
Then, in a voice so controlled it could have been carved from stone, he declared:
“I am perfectly fine, mere bachche”
He paused.
Then, with a pointed look at the offending staircase, he added, “The stairs, however, are treacherous.”
Silence.
And then, Bhishma, in his infinite wisdom, gave a sage nod.
“Indeed,” he said gravely. “The stairs are quite polished.”
The princes lost their battle.
Yudhishthira turned away, his entire body shaking. Duryodhana let out a strangled noise that could have been a cough-or a suppressed howl of laughter. Nakula buried his face in his sleeve. Sahadeva looked like he had physically left his body to avoid the disgrace.
And Bhima?
Bhima covered his mouth, his shoulders heaving.
Shakuni, either unwilling or unable to acknowledge the suffering of his audience, simply gathered what was left of his pride and walked away.
He did not stalk off in anger. He did not rage or scowl. He merely left, as if nothing had happened, as if his descent down the grand staircase of Hastinapura had been a deliberate choice-an elegant, calculated maneuver.
But from that day on, the young Kuru princes knew.
And every time Shakuni passed by, if Bhima happened to look at him for just a little too long-
Bhima would cough.
And immediately pretend to be deeply, deeply interested in something else.