The blaring wail of the royal conches jostled the Kuru Princess, resting amidst the cushioned seats of her chariot. The desire for slumber far-fetched from the deep brown, doe eyes, widened and eagerly beholding the golden gates bordering the Kuru capital. The heat of the late-summer winds did little to lift the strands of her loosened locks, intimately pasted against the beads of perspiration veiling the wheatish expanse of skin sheathing her rear neck. Exceptionally doused with a dust of golden hue, as was the remainder of her porcelain bodily skin of warm undertones. The humid-coursing, siesta hour of the day, sufficient in lulling its inhabitants into a dreamless slumber. Their temporal lobes fantasizing the promising coolness of the evening breeze, to be treasured by the hours of sandhykaal alone.

As the paved pathway curved towards the right by an inch, Mitra felt the tender heat of the afternoon rays graze the oval-expanse of the skin overlaying her deep peroneal, visible and uncovered by her stone-studded, ivory footwear. Dismissing the futile attempts imposed, her mind could no longer refrain from contrasting the present sensation of warmth, against that of the Arabian seashore's gentle coolness. As its aqua blues had lapped against her sand-adhered soles, during the ripening hours of dawn. Where she'd strolled the shorelines of Dwaraka's surrounding body of water, with the man she'd began to realize as the kindling spark of her soul. Her footprints though quite minute in size and magnificence, in comparison to the partnering impressions left behind by the Lord of the lands, whose name's ambrosial syllables the rocks of sand whispered with pure reverence.

The wounding of his strong arm around her shoulders, drawing her against the warmth of his side, within the tranquilizing enfold of his embrace. The dazzling, golden armlet wrapped about his accentuated bicep, encrusted with shimmering emeralds. And mirroring the deep hue of her raven-black tresses that spilled against his shoulder, as its bearer had let her cheek rest against the base of his elongated neck. Oh, how her senses had marvelled in inhaling the heavenly aroma signifying the one world, which once reached never returns its inhabitant to this material plane of existence. 

Krishna Loka, the transcendental abode of Govinda, where her soul pined to dwell once more. Amidst the undying flowerings, blooming forevermore in the sustaining zephyrs of Hari Bhakti.

Glancing upon the scenes of greenery bordering the path of their proceeding chariot, Mitra let her gaze trail among the many species of bloom, bespeckling the various greens of shrubbery and trees. Burgundy Dahlias and azure Delphiniums. Fuchsia peonies and magenta Surfinia. The sharp brown orbs of Karna's daughter traced over various shades of numerous species, yet lingered moments longer over the striking hues of yellow, that shone with a golden glow beneath the afternoon streams of light. The pure hue of knowledge pigmenting the translucent, fossilized resin of amber, within which the Kuru Kumari glimpsed nothing but the honey-golden flare of Panduranga's pithambarvastra.

Lifting her resistant eyes, their gaze tamed by love alone and refusing to part with their captivity by Murari's pithambar tones, Mitra shifted her vision up towards the Surya-dominating skies. Gaze intrigued by the greying streaks, struggling to cloud over the scorching ball of light, and reign their monarchy over the cerulean expanse of the bright blues above. Yet, pitied by the beating organ of Krishna's beloved, its chambers forevermore swarmed generously by the Shyamal tones of Mohan.

Oh, how she already missed the deep, gratifying laughter of the bansuri holder. As dense and sweet as the honey obtained from the hidden, tightly guarded depths of the comb and home to the eusocial flying insects.

Lifting the dazzling feather of the Mayura bird, tucked safely amidst the neatly pressed pleats of the skirt, wrapped against her slender waist, Mitra twirled the plume of iridescent shades between her slim fingers. Her awestruck gaze reflecting the shine of the vibrant blues and greens, shimmering like strings of emeralds and sapphire against the down pouring rays of sunlight. 

Raising it to the apple of her cheek, she sighed with the bliss induced by the rare iridescent-brown hairs as they grazed the unblemished skin of her temples and eyelids. Restoring the familiar sensation of his bimba-red lips as they'd fluttered against the skin above her arched brow. And the tip of his nose, as sharp as the beak of Garuda, grazing the lithe derma in its process of playfully nudging against her supple cheeks.

Were these symptoms of irrevocable love? An ocean of the endearment, swarming with the timeless tales of an endless number of sagas, which till date narrate the binding of countless hearts in an eternal bond with that of Govinda's. The waves of devotional bliss, washing against the shores of a sincere heart, within which the young Krishna Priya found herself immersing willfully. The sea of a love, knowing no beginning nor end, as it shall remain forevermore in nature. 

The 'sagara' of Krishna Prem.

Home. A term her defeated mind had believed impossible to acknowledge post the loss of her parents. Near the licking flames of closure, smouldering all living traces of their once breathing bodies, now mere shells bereft of the extinguished soul that had once kindled existence. And left behind no more than a handful of powdered remains as a memory of the King and his pious, chief consort. 

A word she'd shied away from, as her apprehensive eyes had curiously held the magnificent ones of the elder Queen. The lady who'd appeared as no more than the empress of Aaryavata upon her weary child eyes, outside the Pandava tents on Kurukshetra, during their initial meet.

Yet today, as had been the past four years, her eyes held an emotion the Daanveer Putri had accepted to never acquaint with again. As they zeroed in from the distance, the familiar feminine figure, standing atop by the large, marbled columns near the grand entrance of Hastinapura's immaculate royal structure. Slender body wrapped in the finest of her ruby-red lehengas, and a multitude of gold adorning the wrists of the delicate hands grasping with delight the auspicious aarti tray. There no longer remained even the slightest trace of timidness in the gaze of the young princess as she glanced upon the Panchala Kanya.

It was not the fire-born Queen of Hastinapura, her tear-filled gaze held. Rather, they carried the flaming personification of righteousness, confidence and majesty, which framed the ever-blazing eyes known for spilling a multitude of emotions, dependent upon its beholders. And in it, the daughter of Vrushali saw nothing but love. The incomparable love of a mother that knows no limits, nor bows before any. 

Her Mother.

With diamond-ringed fingers grasping the midst of her magenta silk skirt, allowing the viewing of the delicate ankles pattering against the granite flooring above the fresh soil, Mitra raced up the never-ending steps of the palace. Abandoning all formality of royal presence and huffing at the need for so many steps.

Stepping atop the raised foyer near the palace doors, before her elder mother, she was met with the circulating ritual of the small glow of flame. It's radiance illuminating the glowing embers of the agarwood incense sticks, infusing and cleansing the surroundings of the humid palace grounds with its cold smoke fragrance. The red of the Kumkum, signifying deeper powers, along with the prosperous yellow of the turmeric. The rhizome sharing a profound connection with the Earth, and its hue symbolizing the abounding nature of the Sun God and the sacral chakra. Fresh corollas of rose, their velvet-smooth petals carrying the dews of Mother Ganga, lay centred on the tray, neighbouring the turmeric-coated unbroken grains of rice – signifying growth and positive energy as blessing. Near it, lay the leaves of the betel plant. Its forest green shade cushioning the copper bowl of 'kalkandu' (rock sugar) known for its medicinal properties and sweet fortune.

Oh, what a splendid sight beheld, with the swirl of colours, rotating about the Kuru Kumari's immaculate features. Warding off even the slightest trace of the evil eye, while blessing all the universe's prosperity upon her.

In the brief moment it took for the Queen to transfer the tray to her handmaid, Mitra ducked down to graze the alta-dyed, porcelain feet of her elder Mother. But as always, the firm, yet gentle grasp of Draupadi's slender fingers around her slim upper arm, translated the normed failure of her act of respect, as on most occasions. Shaking her jewellery-adorned features in false reprimand, Panchali tugged her young one into the encasement of her arms, with the latter burrowing her face against the flaming red silk of the Empress's bosom.

Inhaling the fresh scent of jasmine adorning the Princess's hair, along with the devotional fragrance of the Gopi Chandan, having latched itself upon the downy head that'd rested against the chest of their saviour some hours ago, Draupadi allowed the scents to infuse within and calm her excitable mind.

Govind. The one name that was able to harness the wild horses of her impulsive mind and words – whether they were a blessing or curse – she'd failed to discern, in spite of enduring the most testing times of her lifetime. Even then, he'd seen - through the hardened, fiery layers of the fire born empress - the optimistic girl, unaware of the mesh of naivete she lay swept in. Who'd been destined to lose all for the reconstitution of righteousness.

"How many times have I told you, my blessings are forever with you. There is no need to bow before my feet for that, my love."

Words failed Mitra, as she attempted to conceal herself within the soft, yet protective embrace of her elder mother. No matter how far she ran, she could never outrun the darkness of the past clouding down upon her very being. Silhouettes of images, her over-imaginative mind had drew into being, filled the nooks and corners of her senses. Blowing to life what may have been images of past, horrendous incidents. Building blocks of carnage, methodically having led to the culmination of the war that had stolen their lives and peace.

The rise and fall of the soft, yet beautifully sculpted bosom beneath her cheek, smeared with the sweet-smelling paste of sandalwood, and sheathed by silks of a deep scarlet hue, that had flared the face of the Queen who'd been publicly humiliated by all. In the grand hall of this very palace years ago.

"I missed you, Maa," she whispered, letting the only words her quivering lips would utter to slip free, before the rosy borders sealed themselves once more.

"I missed you more than you could ever imagine, my dear," murmured the Queen, her ruby lips grazing the soft strokes of the raven black hair. Only the maids had known how the usually pristine scape of the Empress's bedchamber, had resembled the aftermath of Mitra's venturing within. Enhanced with the addition of random shawls strewn across the bed and furniture;  being Panchali's touch at re-creating the look of Mitra's surroundings. Thereby reassuring the heart of a mother that her daughter remained by her side.

Moving towards her grandmother, Mitra marvelled at the tears streaming the cheeks of the aged woman, which were contrastingly pulled up in the contented smile, sported in years. Fragile hands of Maatha Kunti, trailed up the slender arms of the young princess, quivering as they felt their way over the thinness. The mother who was destined to mourn the loss of her first born for a lifetime, could not refrain from fussing over the only surviving bloodline of her son.

Gently clasping the golden-hued cheeks of Daanveer Putri between the palms that now held nothing but her beads of prayer, Kunti pressed an affectionate kiss against the young one's shining forehead. Radiating the descent of Aditya, ruler of Suryaloka.

Carrying the heart of a mother, though veiled exceptionally well beneath the hard planes of his rock-hard chest; apt of a Kshatriya warrior, it could never be hidden from the beloved niece of Dharmaseela, who'd willingly spend all of eternity within his warm embrace. The equanimous features of Yudhishthira - the simplest of smiles, accompanied by a serene pair of eyes, the depth of the ocean of life, beyond the lens of his cornea, failing to sanction a biased judgement upon any their sight landed on - gave way to not even a sliver of emotion that may question his even composure.

Yet, the scrutinizing gaze of Vijaya Nandhini, whose heart rejoiced in the endless affection of Pandu's sons, would they ever fail in discerning the inner peace and delight, that danced merrily within the orbs of the Jyeshta Pandava? The creases lining the under eyes, speaking volumes of the emperor's endless nights of Kingly duties. As the irises of his visual system shone in their act of pouring boundless affection within the token of love, expressed by his lips against her dazzling forehead.

"You're alright, my Dear?" he gently questioned the princess, wrapped in his arms, as the ever-soft spoken words slipped past his lips, and grazed the bonce of hairs upon her head, veiled beneath the shimmering ornaments of gold.

"Better than I'll ever be," she murmured against the deep violet uttariya worn by the King. The loosened gold threads of the intricately woven patterns bordering its pleated lengths, swaying with the shallow breath that escaped her moving lips.

"Yes, we can see. The slightly rounded appearance of your normally crisp jawline is evidence of Dwarakanagari's makhan indulgence, my Dear!"

Mitra turned her narrowing glance upon the second Pandava, ready to strike back a humorous comment on his own larger than average stature, in comparison to hers being a quarter of its size. But one gaze within the sole small, yet expressive features on the enormous Bhimasena's face, and witnessing the glow of long-awaited joy within them, made the words of sarcasm burn back down the length of her slender throat. Their plight of arrest not quite reaching the gates of her lips, preserved in a rueful smile.

"I see you've held back on consuming not only a helpful portion of my own, but your meals as well, my dear Uncle," she murmured. The tamed sarcasm resting in her throat falling prey once more, now to the backlog of tears, their escape forbidden by the rapid blinking of her doe eyes. Allowing her fingers to affectionately caress the sauntered skin, of the satisfactorily rounded jawline of her favourite Ballava, Mitra examined the loss of the generous expanse of sun kissed, tanned skin that strikingly contrasted her sun blessed, yet fair one.

"The additional padding of skin, which had dutifully sheathed your cheeks, must have traitorously adorned mine now," she chuckled with mirth. "Why, did your cravings for sweet abandon you, Uncle?"

"Ahh my craving for sweet rests with the heart, my dear. And that indigent, aged organ of my existence, now lay unwaveringly bound to the chiming of a pair of ghungroos. Which themselves being enchanted by Mohan's bansi, had followed the Yadu Nandhan to the once submerged land of the Yadavas," smiled Bhima, the spark of his Krishna-contained mind's mesmerisation, accompanying the familiar glow of silent reluctance. One that Mitra alone had witnessed four years back, in the royal kitchens. The trepidation that magnanimously suffused the massively built Pandava, at the mere thought of allowing the only form of the eldest brother he'd failed to identify, ever beyond his sight or reach.

"That meant more sweets for us," smirked Nakula, as he swiftly tugged the princess into his arms. Embracing her to himself, as if she would disappear with the loosening of his firm hold. Mitra smiled against the solid wall of warmth her cheek lay pasted against, as she reflected on the similarities between the elder Madreya and herself. In terms of masking the rogue waves of emotions, behind a practiced veil of sarcasm and humour, thus preserving the smiles on the faces of their loved ones when needed.

Nakula pressed his handsome face against the jasmine adorned head, resting within the confines of his arms, effectively smothering the lone tear daringly having slipped his eye. The solitary droplet of longing, trespassing the gaze of the onlookers and finding its way home amid the scented roots of young raven-black hair. Upon the head of the adored disciple, who bit back a sob that threatened to escape her lips, with the emotion's quiver of suppression that gently shook the Kuru Prince's steel frame.

When did the daughter of the Suryaputra, the warrior who had single-handedly defeated his prowess and spared his life on the seventeenth day of battle, become the essence of his soul? Did it flower upon the bloom of familial realization with the death of his eldest brother? No, the bud of hope had set about blossoming days before, its roots digging past to the initial chime of the oxidized pair of anklets. Their mellifluous notes having resounded upon his praising ears, near the Kaurava camps on Kurukshetra bhoomi.

"You cannot refrain from keeping her to yourself, can you?" came the voice of the mild-mannered Sahadeva, annoyance at his twin lacing the affection within. Unwinding one of Nakula's muscular arms sheathing the head of his niece, the youngest Pandava dropped a doting kiss against the tousled hair of Kuru Kumari's temple.

"I'm keeping her to myself, you say?" countered Nakula, a smirk creasing the corners of his lips and eyes. "My dear brother, did you forget that she is fondly addressed as 'Vijaya Nandini?'"

Vijaya.

Vijaya Nandini.

Daughter of Vijaya.

Her Arjun Baba.

The sole name, alongside Madhav, binding Mitravinda to the boat of hope in the ocean of life. Their gentle ripples of familiarity, overpowered by the tidal waves, in the name of Kurukshetra, that had crashed with fervour against the dreams of the Aaryavarta mortals.

Mitra whirled around, freezing as her gaze crashed with the arrow-sharp ones, that despite its intensity, carried the softest glaze of wisdom. Warming with unbounded affection for the one who held his heart. And the warmth hers had longed for that fateful night in Dwaraka, when she'd awoken alone, blanketed in a sheet of bone-chilling gelidity. Lithe limbs immobile, and powerless in clearing away the dews of perspiration, broken free across the clammy skin of her temples.

Blinking back the onset of tears, threatening to push their way past the kohl-lined ridges of her eyes, Mitra rushed towards Arjuna. Soles of the embroidery threaded footwear, only briefly acquainting with the surface of the grand, marbled flooring maintaining the unbearable distance between Vijaya and his Nandhini.

Throwing herself into the outstretched arms of Gandivadhari, Mitra bit back the mercurial natured chuckle rising to her lips, in response to the momentary step taken back by the great archer. To straighten the imbalance of the two staggering bodies, induced by the impact of the embrace, soused with longing.

Yet, just as soon as it had flickered to life, the urge to engage in laughter died down to nothing but flitting embers. Washed by the onset of tears pooling her orbs and spilling boundlessly down the pearly cheeks, in response to the ever-familiar fragrance of Phalguna immersing her senses. Gaining the reigns to her mind's control over her emotions, which nonetheless proved to be incompetent before the rage of the salty drops of feeling. At being held captive behind the lids of the doe eyes for far too long since her return.

The gentlest of Dhananjaya's fingers, grazing her braided hair, sent a shiver down the spine of the princess, re-living the horrendous fragments of that fateful nightmare once more. The grasp of Grandfather Shakuni's fingers against the locks of her soft scalp, as he'd hoisted her bloodied body, as Brother Abhimanyu, off the red-stained grounds of Kurukshetra. Her wounded limbs, shimmering with the golden glow of Surya's rays ricocheting off the translucent grains of sand, pasted against the crusted pools of partially dried blood guarding the wounds adorning her arms and legs.

Clutching the folds of his pleated, ivory angavastra between her slender fingers, Mitra burrowed herself against the chiseled chest of Mahabhahu, as his mighty arm wound more snugly around her neck. Terrified mind sprinting away from the memory of the similar wounding of her father's arm around her neck, as he'd enfolded Brother Abhimanyu within his final hold, Mitra pressed the side of her face against the heart of the one she'd mentally screamed for in that moment of atrocious death.

As the steady rhythm of Nara's beats, pulsating to the meter of 'Nara-Yana,' streamed in through the canal of her small ear, soothing the rapidly beating chambers of her bright red organ of life - her parched lips moved in synch, whispering on their own accord, words of peace to her ears alone.

"Arjuna. Phalguna."

The revered names of the great Pandava warrior, whom the Princely son of Virata, had uttered with a devoted mind, clearing the fog of fear having reigned hold over his young heart. Prior to retrieving the Kuru descendants' weapons from its hiding within the topmost branches of the forsaken banyan tree.

The son of the magnificent Lord Indra, the God upon whose command rainfall blesses growth upon this fertile land. The noble Madhya Pandava. He whose chariot's wheel had flown into the sky and convulsed the Earth as a thunderstorm – upon which when in the presence of thunder, its companion lightning, or any moments of terror - two among the ten names of the Mahanayak is sufficient to liberate one from the imprisonment of fear.

'Arjuna, Phalguna, Jishnu, Kireeti, Swethavaahana, Vibhatsu, Vijaya, Krishna, Saviyasachin, Dhananjaya.'

(Mahabharata, Virata Parva)

Oh, Revered Gandivadhari.

Best among mankind.

The recipient of Ganshyam's pearls of wisdom.

The Vibhuti, glorious manifestation of Sri Hari.

The Nara of Narayana.

I bow down before your valour.

I seek inspiration within your wisdom.

I offer my humble obeisance upon the dust grazing the feet of the great warrior, who's heart beats to the pearls of Geetacharya's Gita gyan.

The silk of his neatly pleated uttariya, crumpled pitifully under the tightening clench of the Kuru Kumari's slim fingers, as she fought to gain control over the cataclysm of conflicting emotions toiling with her mind's sanity.

Oh Narayana, what 'leela' are you enacting by toying with a peculiar bond as such?

How did her heart find solace in the very arms, that had put to an eternal rest the beats of life in the man who had fathered and loved her? 

How did the mind of the man, on the verge of insanity, grasp onto the remnants of his mental stability, and find solace in holding close within his arms the bloodline of the rival? The arch nemesis who'd taken part in ending the life of his cherished son. Colouring red the grounds of Dharmakshetra with the warm, arterial lifeforce, within which lay ingrained both Kuru and Yadu morals.

Arjuna rested his cheek against the soft head, allowing the familiarity of the maang tikka and its ratna gems indenting the skin of his jaws, to mark the evidence of their existence and the return of their charming adorner within his heart. Amidst the chaos that had once more taken residence of her mind, Krishna Priya curiously observed the translucent drops of salty liquid escaping her eyes. Pigmented by the khol lining the watery ridges of her doe like features, Shyamal hue as her Ganshyam, and colouring grey the portion of the cream-toned angavastra resting beneath her face.

Madhav.

Madhava was always right.

He was the essence of their bond.

Pulling away from the embrace, Arjuna gently cupped the supple cheeks within his warrior hands. Mitra watched with bated breath the joining of the curvy eyebrows, and frown that marred the sharp features of the Pandava Prince, as his eyes traced her tear-stained cheeks.

Wiping away the watery remnants with the tips of his fingers, he questioned, "Why are you crying, my dear? What is bothering you?"

With unanswered questions flooding the her mind, Mitra let her gaze pour into those of her father's, submerged in affection with waves of worry. Their silent ripples creasing the corners of his eyes.

Who were the individuals she had known and loved all her life?

Was there more to them than what met her eyes?

Were there unravelled layers to their characters?

Were there greys to the emotions behind the bounding love she'd known, which she'd believed to be pure white?

'Madhava was right. Everything always happens for the good. Even this heartbreak.'

'Because it has given a childless father and a fatherless daughter one another. It has given us each other, Baba.'

What force had played its role in influencing her utterance of these words, with such unalloyed certainty, four years back on that fateful day? By the smouldering embers of her father's pyre.

Mitra sighed, attempting to discard with the expired breath, the pressure of the endless questions. Along with it, the emotions triggered with passion within her depths, as she once more pulled on a façade of strength. The same one she would find herself struggling to adorne hours later in the day, within the silent walls of her chamber, as she runs her delicate fingers through the curly mass of Arjuna's locks. His head resting atop her lap, and her free hand clutched within the gentle clasp of his hold, where it rested against his chest in peaceful slumber.

"Nothing at all, Baba," she smiled, letting her fingers trail over the unkept stubble of his cheeks. "I've missed you so much."

A wave of relief washed over Arjuna's features, as he confidently ignored the smallest spark of doubt that fizzed within the depths of a father's heart, as he cupped the cheeks of his dear one between his palms. Pressing the softest of kisses upon her forehead, he inhaled the natural fragrance of her hairline, engulfed by the freshness of jasmine, seeking the calmness his senses wished for.

"Words are insufficient to describe how much I've missed you, my child," he murmured as he pulled her once more into the confines of his embrace.

Mitra willed herself to seal the doors of her mind to the unnecessary thoughts and reflections of the past.

That is exactly what they were. The past. Incidents of history that could never be changed. Why let it affect what little peace they had coveted for themselves now?

Nestling her face against the broad chest of Vijaya, adorned by numerous golden haaras, Mitra allowed the cool graze of the jewel's metal, and the indents left by the deep ridges of its traditional carvings of Kuru heritage against her soft skin, to ground her to the present. Yes, that was what she needed to focus on. Not the past and its catastrophe. But the present and the loved ones who remained in it by her side. Their love was sufficient. There was no use in wracking her sanity by willfully contemplating on what lay behind the shadows of the bygone. 

Miles away by the shores of Dwaravati, the waves of the Arabian sea worshipfully kissed the footprints of the Shyamal one. Imprinted upon the golden sands of the shores he walked along, with his monsoon cloud coloured skin shimmering beneath the unfiltered beams of light. Chuckling in response to the naivety of the young maiden, as his eyes twinkled with compassion at the child like heart he adored. The gentle shaking of his head, adorned by the glimmering gold of an elaborate crown, upon which rested the fluttering twin feather of wisdom. Deriving its reflection of colours from the amalgamation of pigments and photonic crystals. And the brother of whom now resided in Hastinapura, tucked beneath the waistband of the Kuru Princess's flowing silk lehenga.

If only our minds would wholeheartedly cherish the welcoming embrace of the brightest of futures, without acknowledging or coming to terms with what had once been.

The individual tales of the Mahabharata and the beliefs of its participants. Having become the propelling factors in the culminating point of Kurukshetra and its subsequent dusk of agony.

Hello my friends! Hope you enjoyed the chapter!

How did you feel about the ride of emotions in this part? The emotions and thoughts of the characters? Where do you think this story is heading towards now, based on Mitra's thoughts?

Please do comment your thoughts and opinions - I'd love to hear them! And please do vote if you feel it's worthy. 

Thank you all for commenting questions for Mitra in the previous discussion post (Chai with Mitravinda Season II)! For those of you who haven't yet - there is still time! And I will get around to answering them all soon in the next post :) Thanks in advance!

Until then, take care and stay safe.

Loads of love,

Geitha (Your Author Friend)