As Arjuna Plummeted Toward His Fate, His Mind Was A Storm Of Regrets And Unanswered Questions- Yet Woven

Echo's of a life lived

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."

✨INTRODUCTION✨

Namaste!! aap ka swagat hai, devi aur sajjano🙏

I've come to the stark realization that I've never introduced by myself properly. I still don't know how to use tumblr properly

I'm Yami. You can call me Yumjum, Yams, even Yami or whatever you want. I'm a student, and have no time, but still enough time to write occasionally.

I kinda enjoy writing about Mahabharata. It helps me cope with life. Please do note that I am no expert in Mahabharat, religious texts, or writing in general. So most, no all, of my stories are creative renditions and stories.

That being said, here are some of my works:

WATTPAD PROFILE:-

Prank gone wrong

Arjuna: Through the Lenses of Dwarka

The Archer Remade

Mahabharat crack fic Series

Shakuni Mama aur Shraapit Seedhiyan

Bhima and his mighty arms

Arjuna: 3, Yadavas: 0

Holi hai bhai holi hai

The Coconut Saga

Udderance

One shots

Merchants of Dwarka

Echo's of a life lived

Swept Away

Just a little longer

The sword

POEMS

FIRE AND RAIN

Bed of Arrows

The One Who Holds My Reins

The Coconut Saga- Mahabharat crack fic Series Part V

The temple was almost ready. Almost… The garlands were strung up, the lamps were lit, and the rangoli- somehow, miraculously- had survived Krishna’s meddling (that was debatable). Balarama had managed to keep his sanity intact, and Arjuna had been dragged into much chaos, but for once, it seemed like everything was going smoothly.

That was all, until Krishna suddenly stopped in the middle of the courtyard, looking deeply troubled.

“I swear I left it here…” he muttered, scanning the area. Arjuna, who had just collapsed onto the temple steps after hours of work, groaned. “Madhav, I don’t like that tone. What did you do?”

Krishna tilted his head. “It’s not what I did, Parth. It’s what the universe has done to us.” His sakha turned to him, genuinely distressed, “The coconut is missing.”

A long, painful silence.

Arjuna questioned slowly, “What?”

“The sacred coconut for the puja!” Krishna flailed his hands. “It was right here, and now it’s gone!”

The coconut was precious. Oh, the coconut was previous…

The one that was specifically brought, by Vasudeva himself, from the Southern kingdom, that coconut was missing.

Arjuna stared at him, unblinking. Then, slowly, he inhaled. “Madhav,” he began, his voice calm, measured, dangerous. “You had one job.”

Balarama, passing by, immediately turned back around sensing chaos. “I don’t have the patience for this.”

Arjuna, however, was done. He sat up so fast his back cracked.

“The coconut did not have legs to walk away.” His hands flew to his head. “Where is it!? You were told to keep it with you all the time. It was the reason why I was doing all your work. YOU. JUST HAD. TO. KEEP. IT. Where is it Madhav???”

Krishna smiled at him. That infuriating, infuriating smile.

“That, dear Arjuna, is the mystery.”

“It's not a mystery! Keshava, It’s a disaster!”

Krishna, meanwhile, was suspiciously unbothered. Arjuna turned to him sharply. “Did you… Did you eat it?”

Krishna gasped, deeply offended. “Parth! How could you suspect me of such a thing? I did not! I just left it here, right behind th--”

Then, from behind them, came a soft crunching sound.

The duo turned slowly.

There was Subhadra. Munching.

She just blinked at them.

Krishna was the first to speak. “Bhadre,” he began with forced calm, “do you have any idea what you have done?”

Subhadra, mid-chew, looked at them blankly. “I was hungry.”

Arjuna made a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a scream.

“Hungry!?” He threw his arms up. “HUNGRY!? it took weeks to get that coconut from the south! WEEKS, MADHAV! WEEKS! not to mention Vasudeva-ji himself got it!”

Krishna stroked his chin. “It did, didn’t it?”

Arjuna whirled on him. “You knew this, and you left it out in the open!?”

“Technically,” Krishna mused, “it was the universe that left it there.”

“I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND.”

Balarama, who had just returned from checking on the priests, stopped mid-step when he saw Arjuna pacing in a panic, Krishna looking suspiciously thoughtful, and Subhadra chewing.

He stared at them. Then at the half-eaten coconut. Then back to them.

“…I don’t want to know,” he said, turning away.

“YOU HAVE TO KNOW!” Arjuna ran up to him, grabbing his shoulders. “SHE ATE THE PUJA COCONUT!”

Balarama closed his eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. Then he turned to Krishna.

“Fix this,” he ordered.

Krishna’s eyes sparkled. “Of course, dear brother. We will retrieve another coconut.”

Balarama crossed his arms. “Good. You have half an hour.”

Arjuna froze. “What?”

“The puja starts in half an hour.” Balarama’s expression was deadly serious. “I suggest you run.”

Arjuna bolted from the temple, dragging Krishna with him.

“Do you know where to find another sacred southern coconut, Madhav?”

Krishna, despite being yanked at terrifying speed, smiled serenely. “No, but I enjoy a challenge.” Arjuna nearly threw him off the road they were running on.

The first stop was a bustling market stall.

"Do you have a coconut?" Arjuna demanded, breathless. The merchant blinked. "Of course my prince, we have plenty-"

"FROM THE SOUTH!?"Arjuna added wildly.  The merchant frowned. "That’s… oddly specific."

Arjuna slammed a bag of gold on the counter. "DO YOU HAVE IT OR NOT?"

"…No?" Arjuna turned to Krishna. "Madhav, what now?"

Krishna picked up a random coconut, inspected it, and shook his head. "The energy is all wrong."

Arjuna threw his hands up. "The energy? IT’S A COCONUT! Govind, your brother is gonna have our head."

The merchant stared at them, utterly confused.

Again the chase restarted, they ran down the street, only to find Satyaki standing with a group of traders.

“Satyaki!” Arjuna gasped for breath. “Please tell me you have a coconut from the South.”

Satyaki raised a brow. “Why?”

Arjuna looked at Krishna. Krishna looked at the sky.

Krishna, smiling: “Let’s just say, the puja is in danger.”

Satyaki narrowed his eyes. “What did you two do?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Arjuna snapped. “Subhadra ate the coconut.” Satyaki gasped. Then laughed so hard he had to lean on a cart for support.

Arjuna grabbed him. “DO YOU HAVE ONE OR NOT?”

“Why would I—AH!” Satyaki ducked as Arjuna nearly tackled him. “Alright, alright! Maybe I know a trader who has imported coconuts—”

“WHERE!?”

Satyaki pointed down the street. Arjuna was already running while dragging his Madhav along him.

By the time they reached the trader, they were out of breath.

“Co-Coconut…” Arjuna panted. “From the South.”

The trader frowned. “I don’t sell them these days, but I think my grandmother has one-”

"WHERE IS SHE?"

A bit shocked at the usually composed Gandhivdhari, the trader replied, taken aback, "She’s taking a nap at our house. It’s the one behind the Banyan tree."

With a quick Thank you, Arjun was back at it- dragging Krishna towards the house.

Arjuna grabbed Krishna. Both princes looked hassled and disheveled. "Madhav, you’re good with elders- people in general- FIX THIS."

Krishna knocked politely and, in the softest, sweetest voice, convinced the grandmother to part with her precious coconut.

Arjuna could have cried. He grabbed the coconut, his Sakha, bowed, and RAN. With only minutes left, they stormed back into the temple.

The temple courtyard was a whirlwind of activity, priests bustling around with offerings and flowers, the scent of sandalwood and incense heavy in the air. Devotees whispered their prayers, oblivious to the chaos that had just unfolded outside.

And then- Arjuna crashed in.

Barefoot, wild-haired, clothes disheveled, Krishna’s arm clenched in one hand, and absolutely breathless, but victorious.

He lifted the coconut above his head like a war prize. “WE HAVE IT!”

The head priest turned, completely unfazed. He took the coconut without a word, inspecting it with a casual nod before handing it off to an assistant. As if Arjuna had not just been on the verge of divine ruin.

Arjuna stared. “…That’s it?”

Krishna, as pristine as ever, smoothed his sash and beamed. “Ah, Parth, what a delightful adventure this was.”

Balarama, who had been watching this unfold from the side, sighed deeply. He had long given up trying to make sense of his younger siblings’ antics but today had been particularly exhausting.

He shook his head. “I don’t even want to know what happened.”

Arjuna ran a hand through his wild curly hair. “Good. Because I don’t want to relive it.”

And then, from the temple steps, a quiet crunch.

The three of them turned slowly.

There sat Subhadra. Casually popping another piece of the old coconut into her mouth.

She blinked up at them. “Well, that was fun.” She tilted her head, looking genuinely amused. Then, without a word, she reached behind her and casually tossed something at Balarama.

A perfect, untouched coconut.

The real one.

The one Vasudeva had gone through great pains to acquire.

Silence.

Balarama caught it instinctively and stared at it like it was an illusion. Krishna’s eye widened in realization, and he smiled. Arjuna froze.

Subhadra brushed her hands off, looking smug. “I never said I ate the puja coconut. This one was just from the kitchen.”

She turned to glare at Krishna, “This is what you get for ruining my Rangoli, my loving Bhratashree” Then, she bounced back to the temple to help the elders with the puja as if nothing ever happened.

More silence.

Krishna chuckled. “Well, well, Parth, it seems we went on an adventure for nothing.”

Arjuna felt his soul leave his body as, beside him, Balarama rubbed his temples. “I have no words.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Swept Away ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Arjun and Chitrangada story)

Disclaimer: This is a work of PURE FICTION. None of it has happened in the real epic. Also, THIS IS A WARNING- MATURE CONTENT EXPLICT SCENES AHEAD. Although it's my first time writing such a spicy story, I've tried my best to keep it subtle and... Idk, please let me know if it doesn't make sense. I think I'll stick to the comical stuff after this.

I really wanted soft boi Arjun with the ever commanding Chitrangada. I also need more Chitrangada stories, please recommend me some if there are any good ones. The portrayal of Chitrangada was inspired by a chapter from @desigurlie's lost moment- Upturned fates. Her work has always fueled my obsession✨

Again, WARNING- ⚠️⚠️⚠️MATURE CONTENT AHEAD⚠️⚠️⚠️-

He had commanded legions.

His name echoed across Aryavarta like a hymn of war and wonder.

He had crossed untamed lands, brought kings to their knees, and claimed victories that echoed through the ages.

Yet now, the very same man lay on silk, wrists loosely bound above his head: not by force, but by choice, his own choice.

His skin glistened, flushed, marked by her full mouth and her hands. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sandalwood, and the only sound was his breath: ragged, hungry, waiting.

 It almost seemed like he was the inexperienced one.

Chitrangada stood at the edge of the bed, watching him like a predator watches its prize- not with cruelty, but with absolute control. Every part of her radiated authority. From the tilt of her chin to the slow, deliberate way she approached him; like she owned every inch of the room.

Every inch of him.

“Tell me what you want,” she said, voice low.

Arjun, turned to look at his lioness. Her skin, sun-kissed and battle-tested, glistened with sweat and shone rich bronze. Her strong arms, Oh how strong yet small against his own hands.

Her eyes, gods her eyes: dark as storm clouds, shaped like almonds. They held the clarity of someone who had seen both battlefield and betrayal, saw straight through armor and ego alike.

Her hair, long and raven-dark, was usually tied back, but when loosened, it fell like a warrior’s banner. Her very being the embodiment of power- grace woven into every stride, commanding in stillness, and utterly unafraid.

He smiled- not cocky, but soft, reverent. “You. However you want me, my queen.”

“Mine,” she said against his skin.

“Yes,” he breathed, arching into her. “Always.”

When her nails scraped down his arms and left blooming marks of possession, he gasped her name like prayer. Then, blinking up at her with those maddeningly amber eyes, he gave a crooked grin. "Should I be worried you’re branding me now, Rajkumari?"

Chitrangada arched an eyebrow, lips curving into something dangerously amused, "You're lucky I’m not carving my name into your chest."

Arjuna chuckled breathlessly, still pinned beneath her. "At least make the script neat. I have appearances to keep."

She didn’t move gently, she moved like a storm claiming the sea, fierce and beautiful, unstoppable. And Arjuna- her husband met her every motion with soft cries, body shaking beneath the woman who refused to let him disappear behind titles or legend

She crawled over him like a flame licking up dry wood, and he shuddered when her fingers traced the lines of his chest.

“You’re not afraid to give me control?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

Arjuna met her eyes with that infuriating, intoxicating calm. “Chitra, my dearest, I’ve held the weight of kingdoms on my shoulders. But nothing feels heavier than your gaze when you choose me. I’d give you everything.”

He wasn’t afraid of surrendering to her: he thought of it as an honor.

She leaned down and bit gently at his lower lip, just enough to make him groan. “You’ll regret that.”

He chuckled, then gasped as her hands claimed him again. “Only if you stop.”

Then, she kissed him like war, like conquest, like she was here to take everything and leave him grateful.

Arjuna gasped against her lips as she pushed him down again: one hand against his chest, the other sliding his arms up above his head with purpose. Her thighs straddled his hips, bare and strong, the weight of her both grounding and dizzying.

“Chitra…” he breathed, but the rest of her name broke into a moan as her mouth moved to his throat.

Gods.

He had faced demons, kings, god- and yet nothing had ever left him so undone as this woman untying the knot at his waist with maddening ease.

She wasn’t gentle tonight. She was hungry.

Her husband- wielder of Gandiva, breaker of sieges- offered himself up without resistance. Not because he was weak, but because she was strong. And nothing aroused him more than watching her own it.

Her dark, obsidian hair, that had unfurled like a waterfall, created a curtain to cover their kisses and the slap of skin against skin.

“Keep your hands where they are,” she whispered. His muscles flexed with the effort not to move. He could easily take control. Flip her beneath him. Take the reins. But he didn’t want to, gods he didn’t.

He wanted her to have him.

She moved like a queen claiming what was hers, every roll of her hips purposeful, every sound she dragged from his throat another trophy. And he gave them willingly. He gave her everything.

Arjuna’s breath caught as her nails scraped down his chest. His eyes fluttered open just enough to see her above him- glowing in the lamplight, body curved in power, eyes consuming him.

“Look at you,” she whispered. “So beautiful like this. My prince. Mine.”

He couldn’t speak; his throat was a tangle of devotion and desperation. He only nodded, eyes glassy with pleasure, hands still bound above him.

She rode him like she knew the rhythm of his soul. When release came, it shattered him. Not violently- but reverently.

Like the sky cracking open to reveal light.

He collapsed beneath her, body trembling, mind blank, lips parted. When she finally untied his wrists, kissing them gently, he wrapped his arms around her and held her like she was the only anchor left in the world.

"Tell me, Arjuna," she said, her voice low and teasing, her eyes gleaming with amusement, "do you always let yourself be so... swept away? Or is it just when I’m the one leading you?"

Arjuna, still catching his breath, let out a soft chuckle, his head lolling slightly as he gazed up at her with a mix of exhaustion and admiration. His skin was flushed, and the faint traces of a smile played on his lips as he tried to find the energy to respond.

"Well," he said, voice raspy, yet playful, "I must admit... you’ve certainly got a way of leading me." His amber eyes twinkled as he lifted his hand lazily, brushing a lock of her hair from her face. "Though, if I’m being honest, I don’t need much convincing. I’m easily swept away, especially when I’m in such... good company."

Chitrangada raised an eyebrow, her smirk only growing as she leaned in closer. "Easily swept away, you say? I suppose that makes my job easier then."

Arjuna rolled his eyes dramatically, his tiredness catching up with him in waves, but the charm in his words never faltered. "Well, if this is what ‘swept away’ feels like, I think I could get used to it. Though I might need a bit more rest before I can do it all over again."

Chitrangada laughed softly, her gaze softening as she admired him. "Don’t worry, my hero," she teased, her hand resting against his chest. "You’ve earned your rest."

Arjuna sighed dramatically, letting his head fall back against the pillows, his exhaustion finally catching up to him. "I think I’ve earned everything," he muttered playfully, closing his eyes for a moment. "But I suppose... I could let you lead me again when I’m feeling up to it."

Chitrangada smiled at his words, leaning down to kiss his forehead, the soft affection in her gesture contrasting with the earlier fire. "Rest now, my prince. I’ll let you get back to your charming self... for now."

Arjuna: 3, Yadavas: 0- Mahabharat crack fic Series Part III

It was a bright afternoon in Dwarka, the sun hanging lazily in the sky, mirroring the way Krishna and Arjuna lounged on the shaded steps overlooking the field. A group of Yadavas lounged under the shade of a marble pavilion, their laughter echoing as they watched what had now become a familiar sight: Satyaki challenging Arjuna- a weekly occurrence

Krishna, reclining against a pillar, plucked at a blade of grass. Arjuna, sitting beside him with one knee drawn up, absentmindedly twirled a training arrow between his fingers.

"You do realize, Parth, that they won't stop until one of them beats you?" Krishna said, amusement dancing in his voice.

Arjuna let out a small chuckle. "And when has that ever happened?"

Krishna laughed, shaking his head. Below them, Satyaki was stretching his arms, rolling his shoulders with exaggerated confidence. Pradyumna and Samba stood on either side of him, whispering among themselves. The younger Yadavas: brothers, cousins, and warriors-in-training- all gathered around, eager to watch.

“They’re plotting,” Krishna remarked, watching the trio below with a knowing glint in his eyes.

Arjuna sighed, shaking his head. "They always do."

Krishna grinned. “And yet, you continue to indulge them.”

Arjuna turned to him, his expression softening just a little. "Let them dream, Madhav. They are young. It is good for them to believe, even for a moment, that they stand a chance."

Krishna hummed in agreement, a smile tugging at his lips. "And do you ever let them win?"

Arjuna smirked. "Nope."

Before Krishna could reply, below them, Satyaki called out, “Come on, Parth! Let’s see if you can still keep up with me.”

A chorus of cheers and laughter rose from the assembled warriors, all eager for the spectacle. Pradyumna and Samba stood just behind him, pretending not to be involved but clearly far too eager.

Arjuna sighed dramatically and rose to his feet. " Very well, Yuyudhana. Let’s not keep your admirers waiting.”

He rose, stretching with elegance that made even something as simple as standing up look like an art. Krishna followed lazily, clearly in no rush to interfere.

The younger Yadavas whispered among themselves. “Satyaki might actually win this time,” one said.

“He’s faster now,” another added.

Krishna stifled a laugh. "They have so much faith in Satyaki, don't they?" Arjuna shook his head in mild exasperation before stepping forward. "Come then, my friend. Show me what you've learned."

The wrestling match had barely begun when Satyaki, brimming with confidence, lunged at Arjuna.

It might have worked… if Arjuna weren’t Arjuna.

Satyaki lunged, fast and strong- but against Arjuna, fast and strong were never enough.

With an almost casual movement, Arjuna sidestepped at the last moment, caught Satyaki’s arm, and redirected his force mid-air.

THUD…

Satyaki landed flat on his back, staring up at the sky, the breath knocked out of him. The watching onlookers winced.

From the steps, Krishna called out, “That looked graceful, Satyaki. Do you need a moment?”

Satyaki groaned. “I-I'm fine.”

Pradyumna folded his arms. "That looked painful."

Samba grinned. "Not as painful as what we’re about to do."

Before Arjuna could even turn around, the two young Yadava princes pounced.

Samba went for his legs while Pradyumna leapt for his shoulders. A sound strategy, against anyone else that is.

Arjuna, without so much as a frown, shifted his weight at the perfect moment. He caught Pradyumna mid-air with one arm and smoothly stepped aside- causing Samba to charge forward into thin air.

Samba, unable to stop in time, crashed straight into Satyaki.

“Off! Get off me, you little menace!” Satyaki groaned.

Arjuna, meanwhile, glanced down at Pradyumna, still held securely in his grip, like a father humoring an impatient son. “You seem troubled, Yuvraj,” Arjuna mused, his voice smooth as silk.

Pradyumna glared, red-faced, struggled in his grip. "Put me down, uncle!"

Arjuna smiled. "Oh? But you seemed eager to climb me a moment ago."

Samba, tangled with Satyaki, cackled. “He got you there.”

Pradyumna, refusing to lose face, latched onto Arjuna’s arm and refused to let go. Samba, never one to miss an opportunity, grabbed onto his other side.

Satyaki, deciding that this was the perfect time for revenge, lunged at Arjuna’s back.

It was three against one.

For anyone else, this would have been a fight.

For Arjuna? With a single, almost lazy shift of movement, he broke Samba and Pradyumna’s grip, twisted, and let Satyaki’s own momentum carry him forward- straight into the dirt. The three Yadavas collapsed in a heap, groaning. Dust flew everywhere.

Arjuna dusted off his sleeves, completely unruffled. He turned to Krishna, who was watching with clear amusement.

"Was that entertaining enough for you, Govind?"

Krishna chuckled. "It was brief but enjoyable. I did warn them."

Satyaki, still sprawled on the ground, glared up at Arjuna. "I will win one day."

Arjuna smiled fondly. "I admire your optimism, Yuyudhana."

Pradyumna, patting away all the dust from his being, muttered defeatly, “I hate him.”

Arjuna turned to him with genuine warmth in his eyes. "I know you don’t, Pradyumna. But do tell me when you’re ready to train again, I will teach you how to be better."

Pradyumna, despite himself, looked away, the irritation in his expression replaced by something almost begrudgingly respectful.

Samba, still grinning, clapped Arjuna on the back. “You’re annoying, but I like you.”

Arjuna let out a soft laugh and mussed Samba’s hair like an elder brother. "Likewise, little prince."

Krishna, watching the exchange, smiled knowingly. "You see, Parth? They admire you more than they admit."

Arjuna sighed, shaking his head with a fond smile. "They will be the end of me one day, Madhav."

Krishna laughed. "Then you’ll have to stay undefeated, won’t you?"

And with that, the three bruised, exhausted Yadavas stood once more- ready, even in their defeat, to challenge Arjuna again another day.

Arjun and Vasudeva moments

"You remind me of my father," he murmured.

The words were softer, almost lost in the stillness of the room, but everyone heard them. The teasing stopped. The smirks faded. The easy mirth in Krishna's eyes dimmed just a little.

Vasudeva, who had been gently supporting Arjuna all this time, stilled. He knew whom Arjuna was speaking of.

Pandu.

His old friend. His comrade. A man taken too soon.

Arjuna's amber eyes were heavy-lidded, hazy with sleep and intoxication, but behind them- there was clarity. A deep, distant emotion settled in them, something that had been there for years but had never truly been spoken aloud.

"I don't remember him much," Arjuna admitted, his voice dipping into something low, something fragile. "I was too young when he left us. But I remember his voice. I remember how gentle he was. How... how he always looked at us like we were his whole world."

Satyaki, who had been leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, uncrossed them. Pradyumna's amused expression faded into something softer. Even Kritavarma, usually composed, lowered his gaze, it felt like intruding in a private conversation.

Arjuna's hand curled slightly against his knee. He exhaled slowly, carefully, as if trying to gather himself, but the words kept coming.

"Jestha bhrata remembers him the most," he murmured, his lips quirking in a way that was neither a smile nor a frown. Just... something aching. "He was the one who held us together after. He was the one who carried all of us when we had no one."

Krishna-ever perceptive, ever knowing-closed his eyes.

"He never got to be a child."

Wattpad

Arjuna: Through the Lenses of Dwarka - (Part II) More of drunk Arjun Shenanigans

Read (Part II) More of drunk Arjun Shenanigans from the story Arjuna: Through the Lenses of Dwarka by yumjum414 (kya h...

Opinions regarding a tiny bit spicy story 👀

The Sword

It had started, oddly enough, with failure.

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

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

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

Arjuna, cheeks flaming, bent to retrieve it.

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

No sighs. No comfort. No dismissal.

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

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

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

Not out of spite. Not even out of ambition.

He just didn’t like the feeling of losing.

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

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

“Faster,” Drona would say.

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

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

Drona saw it early, before the others did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nakula was spying again.

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nakula didn’t look at him. “A bit.”

“You could ask me to teach you.”

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

Nakula snorted. “You didn’t!”

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

Arjuna mock-bowed. “With pleasure.”

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

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

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

Not behind him. Beside him.

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

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

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

Arjuna grinned. “Not so secret anymore.”

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

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

That would be enough. That would be everything.

"Kya hai Zindagi"

It's the question "Violence" and the answer is Yes.

I'm quite new to tumblr and REALLY I don't know how things work (I hope this is replying to you and not going into a void) but yes the answer is yes (most times)

Merchants of Dwarka

As the sun cast long golden streaks over the docks, Arjuna’s gaze fell upon a spice merchant deep in negotiation. The man was draped in a simple yet fine cotton shawl, his fingers adorned with rings-not ostentatious, but the kind that spoke of wealth gained through years of trade. Before him stood a customer, a lean man with keen eyes, gesturing toward a sack of cinnamon sticks.

“This is not quality,” the buyer said, shaking his head. “These are thin and brittle. I can get better ones from the southern traders for half your price.”

The merchant sighed, rubbing his forehead as if exhausted. “Ah, my friend, you wound me. Do you take me for a liar?” He reached into the sack, pulled out a cinnamon stick, and snapped it in half. A rich, warm aroma filled the air. “Do you smell that? The deep scent, the color-this is the finest from Malaya.”

The buyer frowned, clearly reluctant to concede. “Even if that is so, your price is too high.”

The merchant smiled knowingly. “And yet, here you are, still bargaining.”

Arjuna watched, intrigued. There was a battle happening here-one of words, patience, and careful maneuvering. The merchant was neither aggressive nor desperate. He simply stood firm, confident in the value of his goods.

Arjuna stepped closer, deciding to test the man himself. “You seem very sure of your price,” he said.

The merchant turned, taking in Arjuna’s attire-simple yet unmistakably fine. He studied his face a moment longer before smiling. “Ah, a new customer! And one with the curiosity of a scholar. Tell me, prince, what do you seek?”

Arjuna raised a brow but said nothing about being recognized. “Tell me instead-how do you always know when a buyer will return?”

The merchant’s eyes twinkled. “Because people are predictable. A man who truly thinks something is overpriced will walk away. But a man who stays to argue?” He chuckled. “He wants it. He just doesn’t want to admit it.”

Arjuna smirked. “So, you play a game of patience.”

“Patience, my lord,” the merchant said, “and knowledge. A warrior studies his enemy, does he not? I study my buyers. See that man over there?” He nodded toward a richly dressed trader examining silk. “He will buy, but not until I let him believe he has won a bargain. And that woman?” He gestured toward a lady running her fingers over a set of ivory bangles. “She values rarity. I will not offer her a discount-but I will tell her they are the last of their kind.”

Arjuna exhaled, impressed. “You know people well.”

“A merchant must.” The man clasped his hands together. “And so must a prince.”

Arjuna glanced at Krishna, who, as expected, was smiling as if he had planned this encounter all along.

“Tell me, prince,” the merchant continued, his tone now playful. “If you were to buy from me, how would you bargain?”

Arjuna considered the question. A test.

He picked up a handful of black peppercorns from a nearby basket, rolling them between his fingers. “These-how much for a measure?”

The merchant named his price without hesitation.

Arjuna gave a thoughtful hum. “I hear the traders from the east have brought fresher stock. Their pepper is larger, stronger in taste.”

The merchant did not waver. “Then you should buy from them.”

“But your stall is closer,” Arjuna countered, watching the man carefully. “And I do not wish to walk that far. Perhaps if your price were more reasonable…”

The merchant chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, you bargain well. But if I lower my price, what will that say of my goods? That they are worth less? No, prince. I will not cheapen them.”

Arjuna studied him for a moment before nodding in approval. “Then you are a merchant of worth.”

The man grinned. “And you, a buyer of wisdom.” He took a small handful of peppercorns and pressed them into Arjuna’s palm. “A gift. For the lesson you let me teach.”

Arjuna inclined his head in gratitude, then turned to Krishna, who had been quietly observing. “Did I pass your test?”

Krishna only laughed. “Parth, the lessons of life do not come with scores. Only experience.”

Arjuna shook his head, suppressing a smile. He had learned something valuable today-words and patience could win battles just as surely as steel. And perhaps, if he ever found himself in another kind of war, the lessons of Dwarka’s merchants would serve him well.