Glossary:

Terms:

*Dharma yuddha – a war/battle fought to uphold dharma (righteousness) over adharma (unrighteousness)

*Bhoomi – Earth

*Sarathy – charioteer

*daan – offering of charity

Names of Abhimanyu used in this part:

*Chandra Nandhan – the son of Chandradev (Moon)

*Vijaya Putra – the son of Vijaya (Arjuna)

*Subhadra Nandhan – the son of Subhadra

*Krishna Shishya – the disciple of Krishna

*Raudra Dhari – the wielder of the mighty Raudra bow (given to him by Sri Balarama, who had received it from Lord Shiva)

*Vijaya Nandhan – the son of Vijaya (Arjuna)

Names of Krishna used in this part:

*Mukunda – the one who gives liberation

*Achyuta – the one who is infallible

*Parameshwara – the highest Ishwara (God)

*Hrushikesha – lord of the senses

*Mahendra – larger than Lord Indra

*Parambrahma – the highest Brahman

The smooth pearls slid against the velvety pad of skin sheathing the slender fingers of the Kuru Princess, as she absentmindedly twirled the beaded strands of the elaborate bed canopy before her. The resilient, yet iridescent nacre of the pearls, respectfully residing along the lengths of the strengthened threads, that had brushed against the radiating shoulder blades of mighty Gudakesha's third born. As he stretched his arms at the crack of each dawn, effectively breaking his longing to rest some more.

What was she supposed to feel as she twirled the whiteness of the crystalline form, obtained through the choiceless yield of a clam's defensive mechanism? Similarly, she bore the constricting of her heart as her antagonizing mind pelted it with the ever-dangerous series of words that may very easily make or break one's present life – 'what would it have been like...'

What would it have been like if the war had not taken place?

What would it have been like if her father and brothers had not been lost to the hands of death?

What would it have been like if Brother Abhimanyu had been here to take part in the moments of joy and play between Arjun Baba and herself?

Would he have supported her, or rather playfully rallied against her with Arjun Baba, until the false tears of Kunti's Pari would have eventually brought the two Princes to their knees.

What would the bonding between her Karn Baba and Brother Abhimanyu have been like?

Would Karn Baba have revealed her most embarrassing secrets to her brother, while they both shared a hearty laugh with one another, much to her disappointment? Though she was sure her Arjun Baba would have come to her rescue, mildly chiding his newly found elder brother and adored son, for unforgivably teasing the apple of his eye – the beat to his heart and spark to his soul.

What would it have been like if the Kuru Prince were present with her now?

Would he have laughed at her inability to voice her heart's call for him as 'Brother' four years back? Or would he have held her within his protective hold as she sobbed against his chest? The teary 'Brother' slipping freely, one after another repeatedly, and berating against his heart that rejoiced to be addressed as such.

The soft swipe of a feathered flap against her now wet cheeks, jolted Mitra out of the never-ending storm of mental speculations her mind consistently chose to drench within. Turning her head to the side, Mitra smilingly locked gazes with the teary black beads housed on the face of her most favourite feathered companion, as he observed her silently from his position. Perched upon the princess's right shoulder, sheathed by an elaborately woven maroon silk.

"I should not be crying over spilled milk," she managed to stutter through her tear-choked voice. "No number of tears or endless pondering of what could have been will bring back what is now the past," she continued hoarsely, while glancing down again at the bitter truth that had resulted in the formation of the pearls clutched between her dainty fingers. Just as the secretion of a fluid to coat the unbearable irritant was the defence mechanism of the clam, so was the endless salty fluid that escaped the confines of the princess's kohl-lined ridges – the only defence she knew, that shielded her heart against the suffocating clutches of unbearable loss and endless mental speculations of 'what could have been.'

Hastily wiping away the lingering droplets of sorrow on her tear-stained cheeks, Mitra found herself walking aimlessly among the various gold and jewel bedecked furnishings contained within the large bedchamber. With a gentle word the young Princess had earlier dismissed the handful of well-dressed maidservants, waiting on the young royalty to be tended upon. But, the sister who lay dormant within her, wanted nothing more at this moment than to absorb each and every detail of this chamber and its holdings – each and every nook and corner that still emanated the touch and fragrance of her brother, in nothing but solitude.

Her anklet-adorned feet seemed to have a mind of their own as they carried her over towards the dresser set adorning the left wall, near the windows opening onto the west of the kingdom. Refusing to gaze at the reflections of the expansive, golden framed mirror before her, Mitra settled herself on the accompanying cushioned seat, itself fashioned of rich ivory with ingrained jewels of various species. Running the inner pads of her forefingers against the engraved swirls of designs on the dresser-top, she found herself poring every ounce of her self-resolve into fighting back the tears that sprang once again to her downcast eyes.

How many times must his soft finger pads, with time calloused from the repeated handling of the Raudra bow's string, have run against these carvings as they had searched for the emerald-encrusted bronze comb? Raising her gaze to finally stare into the shimmering glass before her, reflecting the source placed before it along with the golden rays of the early evening sunlight filtering upon it, Mitra let her teary eyes fall upon her slightly dishevelled appearance. The puffy reddened eyes, proof of her teary breakdown, seemed to contrast strongly with a shine against the pale yet supple softness of her petite face. Bordered by the loose tendrils of stubborn curls that had once again escaped the elegant braids made by Subhadra some hours ago.

With longing eyes, she stared into the smudge-free mirror that dazzled with the rays of light glittering upon its reflective surface. The surface which had displayed the mesmerizing features of Chandra Nandhan to his gaze, as his milky fingers handled the jewel-encrusted comb running smoothly through his silky soft curls, aching with the thought of parting with the moon-like lustre of his forehead. A smile of sorrow broke out against her lips as she imagined the bright one that would have adorned his, as he managed to secure his untameable curls away from falling freely against his facial frame. The same one that she observed adorning the lips of Dhananjaya, as his long fingers worked impatiently through the thick mass of curls that refused to be tamed, and succeeded after numerous attempts.

'It has to be the fault of my blurry vision and mind that has lost its stability,' reasoned Mitra as she shiveringly observed the half-crouched figure looming behind her dishevelled appearance in the mirror. The same milky white fingers that had handled the comb, now gently clasped her maroon silk sheathed shoulders, as the moon-like features of the mesmerizing face aligned next to hers. The prominent chin supporting his sharp jawline, now resting upon his fingers above her right shoulder blade. A watery smile broke out against her lips as she observed the fingers of the young Prince, which had raised a multitude of weapons against enemies on the battlegrounds of Kurukshetra, gently fondle the loose tendrils of raven black curls caressing her right cheek, as he slowly tucked them behind her small ear.

The simple gesture of endearment meant heaps to the young Princess whose longing eyes witnessed both fathers she dearly missed at this moment. She shut her eyes as she pictured the numerous times Karn Baba had re-braided her disheveled hair, as a result of wandering out in the scorching afternoon heat – against the stern reprimanding of Mother Vrushali. His attempt at preventing his dear daughter from being the recipient of his beloved wife's chide, once she returned from the market. "My pari," he would hum, as he smilingly tucked away the loose tendrils of curls that adamantly pasted themselves against her shining forehead, with droplets of perspiration formed under his father's scorching rays of heat.

A teardrop managed to pry its way through the thin-lined gap of her tightly shut lid and descended her cheek, as she recollected her mornings in the Hastinapura palace, where her Arjun Baba would decorate her braids, made by either Subhadra or Draupadi Maa, with a basket of jasmines he had spent the early morning hours handpicking. "I believed my heart had been replaced with a block of coal post the war, my dear. Not worthy of being stolen ever again," he would smilingly say as he regarded her through the large oval mirror adorning the wall above her ivory dresser. "But you proved me wrong and managed to steal that as well. My heartbeat," he'd murmur as he pressed a chaste kiss against the soft temple, now emitting the fragrance of freshly picked jasmine.

'This is just my emotional longing hoarding reign over my conscience,' she mentally whispered to herself, slowly releasing hold over the tightly sealed doe eyes. Only to allow a soft gasp to escape her rosy lips, as her widened brown orbs fell upon the stellar smile that greeted her next to her reflection once again.

"You're not really here. Are you?" she questioned, her voice barely above a whisper as she stared at the young Prince whose lips were near her right ear.

"I'm as real as your thoughts are, my Flower," she saw him whisper, yet was sure she heard the voice from within her heart. "As real as you want me to be."

"You'll disappear if I blink, will you not?" she queried, as another traitorous tear rolled down her cheek at the mere thought of losing him once again.

As his lips neared her temple, her eyes closed with the ecstasy of being showered with the love of a sibling once again. Feeling the soft brush against her braided temple, she heard him whisper once again from the depths of her heart.

"When have I ever?"

And with that her eyes flew open once again, widening as they fell upon nothing more than her own reflection, the loose tendrils of curls no longer framing the right of her face. The beak of her feathered friend, perched above her right shoulder, grazed gently against her temple. His beady black orbs veiled by the bluish-black lids concealing them.

"Were you the one who tucked my curls away?" she questioned her friend with a chuckle, as the baby koel responded with a light chirp. "I knew I was losing my mind there for a moment," she laughed, with a touch of sorrow clouding the beauty of the sweet melody.

If only he had returned for at least a brief moment in time.

"Why are you staring at me like that, my friend?" she questioned the bird, whose dotted orbs gazed at the princess, with a mixture of what appeared to be ignited by the spark of a knowledge held beyond this world.

"Never mind, I'm asking as if though I truly expect a worded response from you," she brushed off with a chuckle, as her feathered companion chirped a response in his native tongue, once again catching her attention.

"What is it?"

Mitra followed the gaze of the bird, now turned towards the centre of the large room, to fall upon the diary once again lying face down above a magenta-hued cushion. One among the multitude lining the plush mattress.

"You want me to continue reading the diary?" she questioned with a smile tugging her lips upwards, as the koel hopped up and down in response.

"Alright, then! We've already had our meals, and I'm sure no one will be walking in on us or requesting our presence for at least another prahar. So why not?"

Walking up to the bed, with her close friend tagging along not too far behind, Mitra felt the ever-familiar sense of excitement at uncovering another piece of truth, surge down her spine. Yet, once more she was restrained from dwelling for long in that excitement, as the gruesome claws of fear wrapped themselves tightly around the positive bout of emotion.

What would have been his thoughts regarding her after facing the wrath of her father on the battlefield? Would the perception of 'the rival warrior' he saw in her father have clouded the connection he felt for his flower? What would have been his thoughts during his final moments? Would she ever know?

Settling herself on the bed, among the plushness of twin magenta cushions, Mitra let her shaky fingers open the leatherbound holder of secrets to its very last entry. The very last entry that would provide her the very last answer to the series of questions clouding her mind. 

Would she find them today? If not, what would become of her questions? Would they remain inseparable fragments of herself for the remainder of this lifetime? Would she be condemned to a lifetime, forcefully shared with this unsettled state of mind?

Inhaling a deep breath, Mitra hoped to intake with the air, a bout of strength from the aura of her late brother that filled each and every corner of the magnificently lit chamber, as two pairs of eyes roamed over the beginning of the neatly penned words lining the crisp page of parchment. The doe ones of the Kuru Princess, lined by the richest night-hued kohl, accompanied by the coal black orbs of her feathered friend perched upon her shoulder.

What Would It Have Been Like...

Dharma yuddha? Mamashree Krishna named this battle a dharma yuddha, meaning the battle of righteousness. Does that not mean a battle waged to uphold the principles of righteousness? Shouldn't both dharma (righteousness) and adharma (unrighteousness) inhabit the two polar ends of the battle grounds?

Then why do I see a mixture upon the Kurukshetra bhoomi? Why do I see figures worthy of admiration, upholders of dharma they were known for, wielding weapons against us - the Pandavas and their descendants, while remaining rooted on the side of the fields housing the Kaurava armed forces?

Which side was dharma and which was adharma? But, if Mamashree is situated on our end, as the sarathy of my father – then without a doubt our end represents the righteous one that shall somehow conquer the other. But why then are some of the most revered personalities of the Kuru kingdom and their allies situated upon the other end?

Mahamahim Bhishma – the grandsire of the Kuru clan known for his upholding of dharma and protection of the throne over decades.

Guru Dronacharya – the most respectable and revered teacher of the Kuru warriors, and the sole name worthy of praise behind each of their valour.

Why were these two men situated as leaders of the Kaurava forces? Did they not understand the nature of dharma, and that it cannot be tied alone to self-established oaths and sense of royal duties?

When asked, Mamashree would smile, and with a shake of his head say that dharma was much more than what reaches one's understanding. 'It is high time all obtained the knowledge of what true dharma actually encompasses, my Son,' he would tell me. Would you believe if I said that despite growing up under his shadow, I still desperately fail to discern the deeper meanings veiled by his butter-coated speech of riddles?

Who was to survive and who was to lose themselves valorously to the liberation-gifting grounds of Dharmakshetra?

Did I fear the battle grounds, and the aged faces of the Kaurava elders' sporting looks of death personified, while my young arms hoisted the weight of my Raudra bow against them? Absolutely not. I am the blood of Pandu Putra Gandivadhari Arjuna. I would rather face their wrath headfirst with each and every ounce of valiance housed within me, and gracefully accept the death apt of a true warrior, than turn my back on them from fear.

But there was one man. One among the handful of Kaurava chief warriors who troubled me. The sight of his eyes had me rooted in place the very first time my gaze fell upon them. Those chocolate brown orbs held an unnameable emotion resting behind them. They held the burden of a truth which must have had the capacity to make one lose hope in breathing, let alone live. This man was strong enough to be hauling such a burden. But the weight of the load was not easy I could tell, as my eyes grazed over the deep dark hallows hovering without mercy below his slightly wrinkled sockets, strikingly contrasting his wheatish complexion.

The epitome of charitable action, Daanveer, my father had described him as. Yet, the rivalry that blazed between the two men, refused to allow my father to acknowledge him as anything greater.

Is this why the eyes of the man who radiated the effulgence of Lord Surya Narayana from within, sport the diminished embers of defeat, despite the thundering of his steps hauling uplifted specks of dust off the bloodied Kurukshetra grounds? Had he promised something away in daan which he would never be able to recover?

In each and every instance our gazes locked with one another, I could vow I read something buried behind those fiery brown orbs. There was something this great man, the one who had upraised the question regarding my father's title as the greatest archer of his time, was hiding. Not before us alone, but those of his own as well. Was I the only one who saw through this?

Why did I feel this though? Why did my insides curl when attempting to raise my silvery 'Raudra' against his mighty copper-hued 'Vijaya'? Why, from being situated almost half a mile away from his chariot on the field, did I feel I observed the long slender fingers of Vijayadhari tremble as they raised his prized dhanush against each of the Pandava Princes?

Who was this warrior? Was there more to him than the identities he carried as baggage?

Was he more than the son of the charioteer Adhiratha ji and his wife Radha ji?

More than Uncle Duryodhana's best friend?

More than the King of Anga dhesh?

I never fail to observe the rivalry, tinged by the specks of admiration for Maharathi Karna's archery prowess, in the orbs of my father. But why when I gaze into the fiery sharp orbs of the King of Anga, do I see the same rivalry, but clouded by the specks of not admiration, but helplessness?

Why do I see what I see? Was my affection for the dear daughter of this man clouding my perception of him? Most definitely not. And neither did my encounters with the man, whose eyes held a blazing wrath on the battlefield and a warming softness when off it, cloud my perception of his angelic daughter.

That flower was one of a kind!

The moment Father and I saw her sprawled upon the sandy grounds near our practice area, I haven't an idea how to describe the emotions that overtook my being. It took a mere few breaths for the girl to regain composure over the paining cuts and what appeared to be the suppressed aches of her joints, as she gracefully hoisted herself up to a standing position.

The eyes that housed disappointment and a touch of irritation while gently blowing at the stinging pain of the cuts littering her soft palms, held nothing but initial shock turned expressionless haze as they drilled into ours. How does one shield their emotions so well, at such a tender age itself?

Despite her ivory-hued clothing, aiding her resemblance to a daisy, the damsel's nature could quite easily be compared to that of a rose as well. Just as a rose shields it's inner core from the world with its numerous layers of petals, the soft heart of hers was shielded by the numerous layers of beautiful, yet expressionless gazes and witty remarks she graciously offered.

'Any doubt regarding that, Vijaya Putra?' she had countered back when I had questioned her identity during our last meet.

'You do know that I am your father's archrival's daughter, right?'

Just as the reddened bloom of love protects itself from the harsh grasp of longing, desire filled fingers of mankind, with its skin pricking thorns, the young daughter of Daanveer Karna shielded her vulnerable heart with the arrow-sharpness of her abrupt wording.

Yet, the shedding of blood, in the hue of the bloom itself, that dripped mercilessly from being pricked by the sharp thorns – never succeeds in reducing one's fascination towards the flower of love. I assume that was the fate of any who were destined to become acquainted with this young rose of Anga. Why should I be spared then?

'Sister' I had addressed her as, and will continue to do so, till the day I continue to see my Shrutakarma or Satanika from within.

Will I ever lay eyes upon her again, Oh Narayana?

A question I have no answer to, nor will you provide one to me. But I will always treasure that smile that flashed across her childlike face before turning back towards the Kaurava campsite, in my memory for the remainder of this lifetime. 

I had grown up housing countless questions in my mind circulating around 'what would it have been like...'

What would it have been like if my father and Uncles, along with my elder mother, had not visited Hastinapura to attend the grand celebration?

What would it have been like if Uncle Yudhishthira did not agree to gamble away his brothers and wife?

What would it have been like if Father had never had to leave us in Dwaraka and go away on the 13-year exile?

What would it have been like if harmony existed between my uncles and no war had been declared?

Today I house one more such question, Narayana.

What would it have been like if my father and Anga Raj did not house enmity for one another in their hearts?

Would I have been able to freely offer a smile of endearment when locking gazes with the great Daanveer, without housing the fear of whether or not he would return the gesture?

Would Pithashree have been able to freely embrace the young daughter of Karna and lift her in the air, as he would have done for Shrutakarma or me?

Would Mitra and I, along with Uttara and my brothers, have freely taken walks along the riverside – conversing about each and every aspect of our lives below the scorching daylight of Suryadev and cooling twilights of Chandradev?

But that was not meant to be.

Yet, this war was.

This is the longest entry of my thoughts I've ever penned. Who knows, it may very well be the last as well. The duration of my lifespan may possibly be the size of an ant in comparison to the grey-haired scions of the Kuru dynasty, effortlessly wielding weapons of massive tons despite their ripened ages.

But I have obtained the greatest blessings, one may only ever dream of receiving.

I am the son of the mothers, who being the gems of the Yadu and Panchala dynasties, remained steady in inner strength, while handling all the painful boulders of repeated catastrophes thrown at them by the events of destiny.

I am the son of the father, who along with being the most skilled archer of his time, represented the five best aspects of humanity being courage, strength, humility, intelligence and wisdom.

I am the adored nephew of the four other pillars of righteousness and noblest among mankind.

I am the adored nephew and prided student of the maternal uncle, who himself is the pride of the Yadava clan, and one of the most revered personalities of Aaryavarta. The one at whose lotus feet lay the destination of dharma.

I am the beloved husband who holds the child-like, yet love filled heart of the Matsya Princess, who had unknowingly become my other half.

Is there anything more I could possibly wish for?

Narayana, hear my prayers.

Mukunda, liberate the souls of all who valorously lose their lives and kiss the grounds of Dharmakshetra in their fall as true warriors.

Ishwara, bless my mothers with the strength to endure the results of this war, whatever it may be.

Achyuta, shield the valiance of my brothers, so that it may remain unquenchable and ever-blazing in their hearts for the remainder of the battle.

Parameshwara, uphold and guard the flame of dharma in the hearts of my father and uncles, that has tirelessly guided them thus far, and will remain to do so.

Hrushikesha, bless the love of my life, my Uttara. Provide her the strength to endure whatever may come her way, whether or not I remain by her side. Allow her the realization to always sense the soft caress of my love in her heart, and let it be her guiding light in my possible absence.

Mahendra, protect my Flower. Guide her to overcome the internal battles her young mind may be forced to endure post this tragic battle.

Parambrahma, amidst being situated in this volatile world, may that heartwarming smile grazing those rosebud lips remain a perpetual.

I sincerely thank you, my dear leather-bound confidante. For bearing the weight of my late-night thoughts and expression of masked emotions, which have moulded Subhadra Nandhan into who I stand before all as today, upon your crisp pages of parchment. My respects to your stretching spine that has bound together the years' worth, discreet collection of entries that skillfully reflect upon the life of this Krishna Shishya, and quench the curiosity of the reader questioning the identity of Raudra Dhari.

Signing off from you for today. Or possibly longer. We shall never know.

The unpredictability of life.

Where its true beauty lays.

Yours truly,

Vijaya Nandhan,

Abhimanyu

To Be Continued...

And that was Part XVIII of the Abhimanyu's Diary series - hope you all enjoyed it! We are nearing the end of this particular series in the story, which will be closing after the next part. Don't worry - DaanveerPutri still has a long way to go before this journey comes to an end! 

Please do comment your thoughts on it! It has been a while since I last updated, and I'm more than excited to hear your thoughts and reviews on the part. How do you feel about Mitra's emotions and Abhimanyu's final diary entry? 

And please do vote if you feel it's worthy :)

A big thank you to all for the heartwarming birthday wishes! You guys made my day with them, and I hope this small return gift on my end, makes yours :) 

Loads of love,

Geitha (Your Author Friend)