Merchants Of Dwarka

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...

For the boy who was loved- Balarama POV

Balarama chuckled from his post beneath the tree. It was rare to see his brother-in-law like this: unguarded. Soft. He was always sharp-edged, always honed like a blade in Khandava's fire. Yet, it was not a rare sight in Dwarka or Indraprastha. Arjuna was always gentler around his brothers. His wives. His Krishna.

But with Abhimanyu, he was a different kind of gentle. With Abhimanyu, Arjuna melted- not like steel in flame, but like snow in morning light. There was no guard, no pride to uphold, no dharma too heavy to carry. Just a father, stretched out on sun-warmed stone, listening to his son ramble about horses and formations and the fastest way to take down an elephant from behind.

He watched as Arjuna scooped the boy into his arms and dropped to the ground with him in a heap of laughter and mud. "You'll make a fine warrior one day," Arjuna murmured, ruffling the boy's wet hair, "but you'll be even greater if you learn to smile through the battle."

"You'll be proud of me?" Abhimanyu asked, eyes wide.

Arjuna paused for a moment- then touched his forehead to his son's.

"My boy," he whispered, "proud would be too small a word."

He never forgot that moment.

Which is why, when the messenger arrived: dirt-caked and shaking, lips too dry to form the words...Balarama already knew.

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Just a little longer

“Arjuna.”

The name was spoken gently, but Krishna’s voice cracked like a leaf in the wind. He knelt beside his brother, his other half- his steady hand reaching for Arjuna’s shoulder, the other resting over the blood-soaked cloth covering the boy’s face: Covering much of the brutality left by the unjust of the battle today.

But Arjuna didn’t move.

Not even a flicker of acknowledgement.

He sat there in the dust, knees drawn, back bowed, cradling his son in his arms as if he were still small- still a child with ink-dark eyes and tiny fingers that used to tug at his bowstring in play. His armor, dented and smeared with soot and gore, pressed cold against the boy’s lifeless cheek.

This was his Abhimanyu. His child. His heart’s first dream, his soul’s fiercest prayer, his son that lay unmoving in his lap.

And now they wanted to take him away. To prepare the pyre. To burn what remained.

They might as well set him on fire.

Because Arjuna knew, he knew, that whatever he was before this moment- it had died with his son.

Oh.

How could he explain it to Krishna- to his god, his breath, his dearest soul- that it wasn’t just a body in his arms, but every hope he'd held across battlefields, across exile, across aching, endless years of longing for peace?

That this boy was the proof that something good had come from his hands- not just war and ruin and killing. That this boy had been his reason to believe in a future.

And now… Now, there was no future left.

“No,” Arjuna rasped, the word so raw it sounded more like a wound than speech. “Just a little longer.” His voice shook, nearly breaking under the strain. “Please.”

For thirteen long years, he had dreamt of holding his sons. Of running his hands through their hair. Of showing them the stars he used to name with Krishna. Of teaching them to shoot and pray and love.

He had nothing left- nothing but this. This boy. This lifeless body, so small again in his arms.

He deserved this.

Even if he deserved nothing else from fate—no crown, no kingdom, no forgiveness—he deserved to hold his son for just a while longer.

Nakula stood some feet behind, unmoving. His jaw clenched, his knuckles white, and his eyes swollen. He was murmuring to the grieving Upapandavas, trying to comfort children when he, himself, was breaking. He didn’t know how to mourn this.

He didn’t know who to mourn first- his moon-faced nephew, who once giggled in his arms as he spun him through the gardens… or his sister-in-law, now a husk of herself, drained and crumbling beneath the weight of her cries, or his brother, his brilliant, unshakable brother: now hunched and hollow, clutching loss like it was the only thing keeping him from vanishing too.

Sahadeva knelt in silence, palms joined in prayer, tears slipping down his face without resistance. Of all the brothers, Sahadeva had always sensed what others didn’t speak aloud- and what he saw now in Arjuna terrified him. Because he wasn’t just watching a father grieve, he was watching his brother unravel.

No one could move him.

Not even Bhima, whose arms had once uprooted trees and torn chariots in half, could loosen Arjuna’s grip.

The mighty warrior, the Vrikodara, had tried. He had knelt beside his brother, voice thick with grief, hands gentle despite their strength.

“Arjuna, Brother, please, let him go.”

Yet Arjuna clung tighter. His arms- bloody, bruised- wrapped around Abhimanyu’s still form like a man shielding fire from the rain.

Bhima tried again, but he could not move. Because it wasn’t just muscle holding Abhimanyu’s broken body: It was grief. Grief so dense, so ancient, so fierce that even Bhima’s strength turned useless against it.

Arjuna looked up at him then- his eyes rimmed red, lashes stiff with unshed and shed tears, dust clinging to the curve of his cheek. And in them, Bhima saw something that hollowed him out completely.

A boy. Not a warrior. Not a prince. He just saw his younger brother crushed under the weight of a loss the world had no name for.

“Just for a moment, Dada,” Arjuna whispered, his voice cracked. “If I let go now…” Arjuna’s voice faltered, and the tremor in his fingers spoke what he couldn’t say. Bhima read the unsaid words in his brother’s eyes.  I’ll forget. I’ll forget how he felt.

It wasn’t just about holding Abhimanyu’s lifeless body. It was the desperate, aching need to remember: to etch the feel of his son’s broken body into his very bones.

And in that moment, Bhima realized: Arjuna wasn’t just fighting to hold onto his son. He was fighting to hold onto himself.

Bhima swallowed hard.

He had no reply. Only a tear that rolled, hot and unwanted, down his cheek and into the dust. He stood up and stepped back, shoulders shaking, fists clenched uselessly at his side.

Then, it was Yudhishthira who approached, his heart breaking into countless pieces at the sight of his younger brother, his warrior, his Phalguna, reduced to a shadow of himself.

With the gentleness of a father, Yudhishthira placed a hand on Arjuna’s shoulder, feeling the tremors that wracked his brother’s frame. His voice, usually calm and commanding, was a mere whisper now, heavy with sorrow.

“Phalgun,” Yudhishthira whispered, the name coming from him as a caress, as a gentle call to the boy Arjuna once was- so full of life, so full of promise. “My Anuj...” He paused, his chest tightening, fighting the tears that threatened to escape. “Please, let him go. We need to prepare him for the rites. You must let go, brother.”

Arjuna’s eyes remained distant, fixed on his son, his hands clutching Abhimanyu’s body as if he were afraid it would vanish, as though the very air would steal him away. His lips quivered, but no sound came.

Yudhishthira’s words were a soft echo in the storm of Arjuna’s grief. He knelt in front of him, his eyes filled with pain. "He is at peace now, Phalgun. But his soul cannot move on without this- without us giving him this final gift." The king’s voice faltered, and the man who had so often held his brothers together was now nothing more than a fragile thing, broken at the sight of his younger brother's agony.

Yudhishthira’s hand remained gently on Arjuna’s, the touch conveying all the unspoken love between them. But it was not enough. Arjuna didn’t move. His grip on Abhimanyu tightened.

Finally, it was Krishna who knelt beside him- quietly, like dusk folding itself over the ruins of a battlefield.

And in moments like this, one remembers why he is called divine- not solely for his miracles, not only for his might- but because he speaks truth even when it tears through the soul like a blade.

He placed a hand on Arjuna’s back, feeling the tremble that coursed through him, the quaking breath, the silent storm of a grief so heavy that not even gods could shoulder it.

“Arjuna,” Krishna whispered, his voice gentle- aching, threaded with centuries of love and lifetimes of brotherhood. “Our Abhimanyu… he fought like fire. He bore your name with pride. He made you proud. He made us all proud.”

Arjuna didn’t respond. His arms only curled tighter around his son’s lifeless body as if to protect him from the cold that had already taken him.

Krishna’s voice softened, but each word pressed like a blade to the soul. “Now you must do what he did. Fulfill your duty. He upheld your name, Parth. Now you must uphold his.”

He paused, then added, almost pleading, “Do not let grief cloud his honor. Let his farewell be worthy. Let your love walk with him across the fire, not cling to the ashes left behind.” Still, Arjuna didn’t look up. His cheek was pressed to Abhimanyu’s blood-matted curls. The tremble in his hands had stilled into something far worse: numbness.

“You taught him how to live, how to aim straight, how to stand tall even when the odds crushed around him.” Krishna’s voice broke slightly, despite himself. “Now teach him how to cross over. That too- is a father’s role.”

Slowly, painfully, Arjuna turned his face toward Krishna. His eyes- once bright with clarity and resolve- were red, hollow, and unfocused. The storm had passed, but it had taken everything with it.

His voice, when it came, was no more than a cracked breath, so fragile it barely reached Krishna’s ears. “My gods, Hai Prabhu,” Arjuna rasped, “I will-I will do my duty. But hai Krishna- just a moment more. Please… Please, let me stay with him… just a moment more, Madhav.”

The plea struck Krishna like no weapon ever had. The great Vishnu, the keeper of dharma, the anchor of the universe: could do nothing but close his eyes, crushed under the weight of a sorrow he could not lift.

“I know,” Krishna whispered. “I know, Parth.”

His hands, steady as they rested on Arjuna’s shoulders, now trembled as well. The bloodied cloth between them was growing colder by the minute.

“But you must let him go,” Krishna said again, voice raw. “You must walk him to the pyre. Not because you are ready but because he deserves that walk with his father.”

“I will be with you, Arjuna. Always. Your brothers are here. Your family is here. You are not alone. We still need you.” He paused, his fingers tightening slightly on Arjuna’s shoulder.

“You must let go, Parth. For the sake of his soul… and for your own.”

Arjuna’s eyes lifted to Krishna’s, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. Just them. Just grief. Just love. And the impossible moment between a father’s heart and his duty.

Then, like a bursting dam,

From deep within Arjuna’s chest, there came a cry- raw, wounded, primal. A sound not meant for the world of men, a sound that shattered through the silence and scraped at the sky. His fingers, once iron-bound in grief, began to tremble. His arms, bruised and bloodstained, slowly- painfully- unwound from the broken body of his son. And into Yudhishthira’s waiting arms, the boy was passed.

The eldest Pandava held Abhimanyu as though the weight might crush him- not his body, but his soul. His knees nearly buckled, but he did not flinch. The calmest brother, the pillar of their house, stood trembling.

Yudhishthira looked down at the boy: his nephew, his brave-hearted kin, and then up at his broken brother.

His voice cracked as he whispered, “He will never be forgotten, Phalgun. Not while I breathe. Not while any of us remain. Your son will live on- in every tale sung of courage, in every heart that knows his name.”

At Arjuna’s cry- a sound so devastating it reignited the weeping of Subhadra’s wails in Draupadi’s arms- Sahadeva and Krishna moved like lightning, instinct propelling them forward. Sahadeva caught his brother’s shoulder, steadying him with arms that had never seemed more desperate, while Krishna pulled him close.

No one there, no soul present, would ever forget how Arjuna wept that day. And Arjuna himself would never remember whose arms caught him, whose embrace cradled his collapse. Because in that moment, the world became nothing but grief.

He could barely see Abhimanyu anymore- blurred behind never-ending cascading tears. Just a flicker of a face he once kissed goodnight: a boy who had once run to him, laughing in a sun-drenched courtyard.

Arjuna’s body buckled, and he fell into Krishna’s chest, breath hitching, the sobs powerful and shaking.

And Krishna- His Madhav held him like a friend, like a brother, like the god who had carried oceans and now bore the storm that was Arjuna’s grief.

The fire had not yet been lit. The pyre stood ready.

But for Arjuna, the true burning had already begun: deep inside his chest, where no flames could be seen, and none could ever be extinguished.

His heart was already ashes, and in that quiet, trembling moment, Arjuna let go: of his son, of a piece of his soul.

Holi hai bhai holi hai- Mahabharat crack fic Series Part IV

The streets of Dwarka were alive with color. At the heart of it all was a chase: a glorious, chaotic chase that had the entire city stopping to watch.

Pride of the Kurus, the mighty Arjuna ran.

He darted through the palace courtyard, his once-pristine white garments a casualty of the festival’s wrath.

Arjuna, draped in his usual pristine white, had been an easy target from the start. It had taken only moments for the Yadavas- led by none other than Krishna himself- to turn him into a masterpiece of colors. His, once immaculate angavastram now bore splashes of deep crimson, streaks of gold, and bursts of bright blue and green. A particularly enthusiastic handful of pink dust had settled in his curls, softening the sharp angles of his face, giving him a boyish charm that was almost at odds with his warrior’s presence.

Yet, Arjuna still looked striking, perhaps even more so now, with his usual regal bearing exchanged for the infectious laughter that lit up his face.

Behind him, Krishna pursued, a wicked grin stretching across his already color-streaked face, his hands overflowing with more vibrant powder. The midnight glowing skin of his was almost indistinguishable beneath layers of color, yet it failed in hiding that other worldly beauty.

His eyes gleamed with unbridled mischief, and his hands were filled with yet more powder- deep blue in one, a bright golden hue in the other. He moved effortlessly, leaping over fallen water buckets, sidestepping laughing Yadavas, his grin widening as he closed in on his prey.

"Parth!" Krishna called, laughter spilling from his lips. "You cannot outrun me forever!"

"You underestimate a desperate man!" Arjuna shot back, weaving through a group of revelers. "I have survived wars! I can survive this!"

The gathered Yadavas roared with laughter, cheering for both the hunter and the hunted. Some had even started taking bets, while others, like Satyaki and Pradyumna, shouted helpful (or not-so-helpful) advice.

"Arjuna, surrender with dignity!" Satyaki called out, shaking his head in mock pity.

"Or keep running! I have money on you lasting a few more minutes!" Pradyumna added.

"Parth!" Krishna called, laughing as he almost tripped over a toppled pot of water. "Why do you flee? Come, accept your fate!"

"You are my fate!" Arjuna shot back, twisting around a pillar to dodge Krishna’s reach. "BUT today you are my doom!"

The gathered Yadavas: Satyaki, Pradyumna specifically howled with laughter.

Arjuna, nimble as ever, made a sharp turn, only to skid to a stop when he found himself cornered. The steps to the temple loomed ahead, and blocking his escape was none other than Subhadra, arms crossed, grinning as if she had been waiting for this exact moment. Her golden complexion glowed more with the Kumkum smear on her cheeks.

"Swami...." she called sweetly. "Going somewhere?"

"Yes…" Arjuna said, eyes darting between her and the approaching storm that was Krishna. "Away!"

"Not today," Subhadra said, stepping aside just enough to leave him no option but surrender.

Before Arjuna could react, a pair of strong arms wrapped around his waist from behind.

"Got you!" Krishna whispered, laughter laced in his voice.

Arjuna let out a half-laugh, half-yelp as he felt himself yanked backward against Krishna’s chest, trapped. He tried to twist free, but Krishna’s hold was firm, his hands pressing against Arjuna’s waist in a way that sent a burst of color from both of their stained garments into the air.

"No, no—Krishna, wait—!"

But Krishna had no mercy.

He smeared the powder directly into Arjuna’s cheeks, his fingers pressing streaks of blue and gold into his skin. Then, with gleeful abandon, he ran his hands through Arjuna’s already ruined curls, making sure no part of his dear Parth was left untouched by color.

The Yadavas erupted into laughter and cheered as Arjuna squirmed in protest, sputtering through the onslaught.

"M-Madhav- you absolute menace!" Arjuna managed between gasps of laughter.

By the time Krishna was done, Arjuna was unrecognizable, his entire being transformed into a walking celebration of color.

The watching onlookers erupted into cheers, some pounding their fists on the ground in mirth. Even Balarama, who had initially stayed dignified, let out a hearty chuckle.

Arjuna, wiping his face and spitting out some of the powder that had managed to get into his mouth, glared at Krishna. "You planned this."

Krishna grinned, leaning lazily against a pillar. "Oh, Parth, I merely ensured you enjoyed the festival to its fullest."

"You attacked me!"

"I included you."

Arjuna groaned, running a hand through his thoroughly ruined hair, which only resulted in more color streaking down his face. But despite his grumbling, there was laughter in his eyes, and the boyish smile that broke across his lips only made him look even more endearing.

 He turned to Subhadra, who was doubled over laughing, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes.

"You enjoyed that far too much," Arjuna accused, looking at her with his loving smile.

Subhadra beamed at him, utterly unapologetic. "Watching my husband be defeated by my brother? Arya, How could I not!"

Krishna clapped a hand on Arjuna’s shoulder, his own fingers leaving fresh streaks of orange behind. "Come, Parth. We are one color now. Let’s celebrate properly."

And with that, he dragged Arjuna back into the revelry, as Dwarka cheered for their favorite mischief-makers.

Echos of a life lived- More thoughts

The mountain had taken the last thing he had left-his pride in himself.

Yudhishthira will not turn back for me.

The thought should have angered him. It did not.

He is still walking. Still moving forward.

Perhaps that was how it was meant to be. Yudhishthira had always been ahead of him, carrying burdens none of them could fathom. He would make it to the gates of heaven. He deserved to.

Arjuna had never been meant to reach the end, and maybe that was alright.

Because for all his regrets, for all his failures, he had also lived.

He had lived in the rush of battle, in the whisper of bowstrings, in the heat of the chase. He had lived in stolen moments, in Draupadi’s gaze, in Krishna’s laughter, in the arms of his children. He had lived in love and rage, in grief and triumph.

And now, he was falling.

But he was not afraid.

The sky blurred into the earth, the wind howled in his ears, and Arjuna- Pandava, warrior, brother, father- closed his eyes.

And let go.

How does one make their Wattpad story look so pretty?? Also any Arjun-centric stories I can read???

Help me. My stories just look dull, and I, for the love of god, can't find good photos or anything to make it more pretty.

Please give me suggestions. How do I make my work more pretty? Also should I shift to ao3? I've never used it but it intrigues me.

Also, are there any good Arjuna-centric stories or fics I can read? My mind is in a block these days and I wish I could read some stories to restart my mind?

The story of Arjun's life

Krishna had sent him here with a simple instruction: "Go. Learn." Learn what exactly? Krishna hadn’t said. But Arjuna was used to unraveling the mysteries woven into his friend’s words.

Krishna sending Arjuna on side quests like an open-world RPG, lol

https://www.wattpad.com/1527739311-arjuna-through-the-lenses-of-dwarka-the-master-of

✨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 Archer Remade: The Parting- Sneak peek

“You gambled us away,” Bhima had roared days ago, chest heaving, eyes blazing with something Arjuna had never seen in him before- betrayal. “You gambled her. You gambled me, Jyestha. Say the word and I’ll thrust this hand into the fire. Let it burn. The same hand with which you wagered everything without asking!”

Yudhishthira had not flinched.

“Do it, Bhima. If that will bring her peace.”

It was not defiance. It was surrender.

But Bhima’s fury had collapsed into grief. He had stood, trembling, knuckles white with restraint. Then he turned and walked out into the night.

I'm writing a new story! Yayyy!!! The draft is finally complete!!! A peek to the first chapter :)