Bharat was a calm man. He was a composed man. He was a married man. Wait, scratch that, he was an artistic man, to sum it all up in one sentence. He was an artistic man, but he didn't feel so damn artistic anymore when he saw the watercolor paintbrush that he had loved and treated like a practical son (and a very favored one too, his oil paint brushes were feeling jealous), had disappeared. He paused right where the paintbrush was, or rather, used to be, and scratched his head.

"Maan!" he called, where Mandavi sat in the changing chambers. "Maan, have you seen my watercolor paintbrush?" No sound, and Bharat shook his head, joining his hands together and bowing low. "Devi, do come out of your temple to help this humble, helpless man who also happens to be your husband." And then Bharat paused, his voice turning into one of horror. "Oh my god. I'm becoming Shatrughan. Mandavi! Come out before I become Shatrughan!" Mandavi raced out without letting a second pass by.

"What is it?" she asked. "I was busy fixing my hair." She poofed up her hair excitedly as Bharat simply shrugged. Her playful, girlish tone became one that mimicked the horrified tone Bharat had taken on a few seconds ago. "Oh my god. Bharat, you believed me when I said I was fixing my hair! Have you lost it or what? Everyone knows that only Urmila cares about her hair! Bharat! Bharat!" She snapped in front of his face, and Bharat jumped.

"Uh-yes. Sorry Maan. I-um-have you seen my paintbrush anywhere?" Mandavi raised an eyebrow, as if to say 'Which one?'. "Um-the watercolor one, you know?" Mandavi shook her head, and again, Bharat could read her mind 'All brushes sound the same, descriptions buddhu.' "It has soft bristles made from the finest horse hair and thin, white strands and a golden base and-" Bharat was going all dreamy just describing it, and Mandavi rolled her eyes.

"No, no I haven't seen it." she stated sharply, before putting her nose in the air and walking away, leaving Bharat, to sit down on his bed, rubbing his temples thoughtfully. You know, now that he thought about it, it was probably Shatrughan that took it. Shatrughan always had taken a fancy to his paintbrushes, and snuck a few away whenever he could. He would have thought that Shrutakirti would have milded the youngest down a little, but no! She seemed to have increased his terribleness to new heights!

Bharat was a relatively soft person. If Lakshman was on one end of the scale, then Bharat was on the other, almost always being tricked into anything is someone did puppy eyes and pouted their lips a little bit. And he would have been like that with Shatrughan as well, if Shatrughan didn't completely ruin his innocence with almost always flashing puppy eyes and pouty lips at him. Surely God had created him as a thief instead of a prince, but it was just his luck; God decided that he would do well in the prince area instead of thievery.

And that was a pity, considering that Bharat, who was a great judger of people, thought something entirely different. It always caused him great distress when his paint brushes were stolen. Bharat had never had it easy, making friends. Ram, as always, was a charismatic young prince who could get along with anyone. The twins had each other. But Bharat? He had nobody, nobody whom he could confide in whenever he needed to.

That was when Maa Sumitra had suggested painting, handing him his very first set of brushes when he was three. And since then, Bharat would talk to himself, with only the vibrant boxes of pigments and brushes which he clutched in his thin fingers to keep him company and listen to his words. Bharat spoke about so many things to his paintings and tools. He spoke of love, which he hoped that he would find someday. He spoke of death, which he hoped would reach him many days later. He spoke of life, something he hoped was longer for him than most.

Over days, just as one got attached to a weapon, or a piece of clothing, or a toy, or a crown of sorts, Bharat got attached to his paintbrushes. He named them, and set them where he could see them every night. He used his oil paint brushes and paints for vibrant times, when all he could feel like doing was dance around. He used his acrylics when something extremely happy happened to him. But most often, he would pick up a set of watercolor paints, when something had pulled him back down to the lonely world, when he needed something airy and light to do.

And now his sole confidant, the one thing steady in his life, disappeared like a light going out, the blub popping (don't ask me how Thomas Edison got to TretaYug). Bharat put his head in his hands, and took in a deep breath. "Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry." he muttered to himself, before standing up and looking around. "Okay, problem solve Bharat, problem solve." He took in a deep breath, and rolled his head, shaking his hands. "I bet it's just Shatru. In fact, I know it's just Shatru. It couldn't have gone far either way." Bharat smiled, part of his optimism taking control, if anything.

-----O-----

First, Bharat chased after Shatrughan. The youngest of the four brothers was, predictably, lounging on a chair in the courtyard, popping mangoes into his mouth one by one and looking like a sunbathing beach-goer. Though Bharat would have preferred painting and reading over anything, he looked around and saw the sun shining beautifully, in a way that wouldn't burn his skin and leave him in the shadows at the same time. "Hmm, I should get out more." he murmured, for a moment, before shaking his head and rushing towards where Shatrughan was.

And Despite the plight he was in, Bharat still found the time to be exasperated, disappointed, and amused at the same time as he shook his head, standing in front of the chair, looking very much like an admonishing Maa Kaikeyi, admiring, loving, but stern all the same (now, an admonishing Maa Sumitra was something different entirely). "Shatrughan, some on, you can stop acting so innocent now." Bharat laughed. "And you'll get sun tanned, you know. Come inside."

Shatrughan lowered his glasses on his nose, and his eyes widened when he saw Bharat. "So the social recluse emerges from his palace at last!" Shatrughan cried, setting down his mangoes and jumping off of the chair, and Bharat was reminded exactly why he didn't come out of the house anymore. "How've you been you introverted artist? Finally painted something of me? Show show, do show!"
Bharat shook his head, and grasped Shatrughan's hands. "Look, Shatru. If you took my paint brush this time, just tell me please. I've never seen it gone for so long. Come on, tell me it's a prank, please." When Shatrughan just stared at him, Bharat's heart shattered, and he stepped back. "You mean to say, you didn't take my brush?" Shatrughan shook his head, and Bharat suddenly felt nauseous, his smile disappearing, a look of horror replacing it. "Can you please help me look for it, Shatru, please?"

Shatrughan grinned at him. "But bhaiyya! I'm busy tanning! See?" But Bharat didn't stick around long enough to see, rushing away, a small part of his previously enthusiastic optimism disappearing. If Shatrughan hadn't taken it, who had? He paused. Well of course! It must have been Lakshman! He'd probably taken it to paint one of his carvings! Bharat was hurt, for a second, that his brother didn't trust him enough to ask him to do it, but decided that wasn't important. If Laksh had the brush, then everything was forgiven!

-----O-----

Bharat walked in on a rare sight; Lakshman and Urmila in the same room, doing stuff together. Well, rather, Urmila painted a pool of flowers, and Lakshman handed her paints, and occasionally complimented her amazing color choice skills. Bharat paused for a second, appreciating the sight. Lakshman, in his mind, always deserved a happy ending with a wife to pay attention to, and love as his own, as he couldn't his mother, brothers, or father.

It made him serene to watch his brother so happy, so calm, for once not swinging a sword or grabbing an arrow from his quiver, or glaring at whomever he saw. Bharat couldn't help but smile, leaning on the doorframe unconsciously, before quickly wiping the smile off of his face. Right. He had work to do. He had a missing paintbrush, and a man who probably had it at that very moment. Bharat walked up to lakshman and patted him on the back.

Lakshman whirled around, and visibly relaxed when he saw Bharat. Lakshman simply raised an eyebrow, and Bharat swallowed. He had been hoping for a vocal greeting, but this worked too. "Hey Laksh. Hey Urmila." Both stared at him. "Uh-so I was wondering if you could return my paint brush. You know, the one you took, the one with the blue handle and golden binding, and the white horse hair. Remember?"

Lakshman crossed his arms. "We never took any brush. Those brushes are yours. We have many right here, Bharat." Bharat paused. He was about to ask Lakshman to search for it with him, but something about his younger brother made him feel that he wasn't welcome in this room, and that he was an intruder on some private moment. And so Bharat backed out, closing the door, quietly thanking the two and leaving them to their own painting endeavours.

-----O-----

Bharat's unreasonable optimism kept on working, and working and working. Working until it tired out. What reason would Ram bhaiyya have for taking his best watercolor paint brush? But perhaps he had one. Maybe Sita bhabhi had something to do with it. Right as Bharat walked down the main corridor, he bumped into something. Something very muscular and dark. Bharat looked up, and saw Ram's face. "Bhaiyya," he exhaled in relief. "Have you seen my paint brush anywhere, or-"
Ram sighed, and looked around. "No, no I haven't, Bharat." Bharat slumped, but finally looked up hopefully. But just as he was about to speak, Ram unknowingly cut him off almost impatiently. "Actually, Papa just assigned me to see a village around Kosala which is suffering from some mystery disease. I-I'll have to leave now actually to attempt to recognize it. See you around Bharat." Bharat turned around as Ram swept past him, eager to please Dasharath.

"Good luck." Bharat whispered wistfully, raising a hand weakly, and letting fall back down next to him. Ram bhaiyya didn't care, did he, that perhaps Bharat knew of the mystery disease?

------O------

Bharat opened the door to their chambers, and walked in, placing each foot in front of the other stumblingly, his body suddenly feeling heavy. The shining ball of light of optimism suddenly disappeared from its position right in the middle of his heart, and feeling shattered, as if his world was crumbling around him, Bharat collapsed on his bed, and for the first time in the day, hid his face in his hands, and actually began to cry.

Tears streamed out of his light eyes, and his face flushed red with exertion and emotion. His shoulders shook, and all Bharat wanted to do was hide his face in a pillow and just sob, scream, but no. he couldn't disturb Lakshman, now could he, he with his ugly wails and stupid paint brushes and ugly face poking in everywhere where it wasn't needed. He wasn't even wanted around here, was he?

Bharat heard the door open, but he didn't care. If someone came here, into the room, they would have come for Mandavi. They wouldn't care about him, no if he lay dead with blood streaming out of his mouth. The door closed again, and Bharat hiccuped. He was right. No one did care. But as footsteps approached, Bharat removed his face from his hands, and stared right into Mandavi's horrified face. "Oh Bharat," she whispered, immediately darting by his side, and taking his head onto her shoulder. "What happened?"

"My paint brush!" he hiccuped, and everything was silent. For a moment, Bharat panicked. Now Mandavi would just think he was some sort of baby, crying over something as stupid as a paint brush. But he continued nonetheless. "My paint brush! It's g-g-gone! You know, Mandavi, Maa Sumitra gave it to me as my third birthday present! It was the first thing I painted with it! I kept it clean and pretty and-"

Bharat cut himself off. "No one wanted to be friends with me. No one liked me, the pale, useless son, who couldn't fight, or anything really. I was dumb, and I was stupid, and I was privilieged, somehow, to be a prince. A useless prince. I couldn't ruin everyone's day! I stayed inside Mandavi, and I painted! I had no one to speak to, no one to confide in, and so I just painted. I painted and painted and painted until my hands felt like they would fall off. I painted until my room was filled with the stench of pigment, but I continued. Thought there would be something I was good for at least."

"No one wanted to listen to my words. Either it was Ram bhaiyya, so great, or Shatrughan and Lakshman. Did anyone want to hear me? Did anyone care how I felt? No, all I could do was paint. Paint, and paint, and paint. On sunny days, all I could think about was rain. God, do you know the number of times I sobbed, because no one cared. No one cared, Mandavi, how I felt, and so I painted."

"Eventually, where people did not care, those paints, and brushes, and canvas became my companions, because NO ONE CARED! No one wanted to be with me, because I wasn't teeming with personality, or the favorite of the King, or great at something. And so I painted, I painted to be useful, and to have something to express myself with, and-" Bharat shook his head. "You know the worst thing, Mandavi? I cared."

"I cared about them. I cared about their happiness. I cared about how they did. I cared about Shatrughan and his tanning, and Lakshman and Urmila and Ram bhaiyya and his disease control. But they didn't in return. No, no, Shatru was too busy lounging, and Lakshman pushed me out of his room, and Ram bhaiyya just brushed past me-but I guess they don't have time, right? Ram bhaiyya will become King, and Lakshman will become Army General, and Shatrughan will be some sort of great Foreign Ambassador, and then it'll just be me, and my paints."

Bharat swallowed. "God, I'm sorry Mandavi. I'm sorry you had to marry this useless prince, who only cares about his paints and brushes and doesn't have a thing to his future brighter than the canvas he can paint on. I'm sorry you had to marry this emotional wreck who cries over the smallest things."

Mandavi shook her head, and pulled his head off her shoulder, which was wet with salty tears, that kept on falling even as Bharat finally got to speak. "Stop being sorry for everything, Bharat. Stop being sorry for something that isn't your fault, or isn't a fault at all! Stop being sorry! You say no one cares about you, but I do. I do, Bharat, I care about you more than anything. I care about you more than any person I've ever met." Bharat took in a deep breath, and air so refreshing filled his mouth that even he smiled an unconscious smile. "And besides, look at it this way. At least you know what to ask for your birthday now."

Bharat had closed his eyes long ago, a pitch black filling his vision for as far as he could see. Bharat never wore bright colors, only grays and colors so watered down, they couldn't be considered even pastel. Bharat loved watercolor painting, for the pictures always looked as if they'd been cried upon by someone as sad and alone as him, and the colors were as light and thin as his emotions felt, running through a bleak stream of water. Bharat loved watercolor painting, for it made him feel that perhaps, in this world of grey and black, that there were more. Bharat had closed his eyes long ago to a world of color, hope, and dreams, because Bharat didn't think that there could be a place in that world for him.

Bharat opened his eyes, those eyelashes whose beauty was legendary, long and beautiful, now laced with dew drops of water. It was a world full of colors, wasn't it? Pale blues and greys, and blacks filled the paintings that lined his room. There she was, like a bringer of hope, like a lantern suddenly brought in the dark, which filled his room with light. There she was, like an angel, an angel of color, walking into his life and unleashing her rainbow wrath, wearing a lehenga of deep red, and a ghunghat of a color so bright, even his eloquent vocabulary could not begin to describe it. Wings emerged from her back, and she reached down for him as she flew from the sky above, the sky that somehow was lined with the purples, pinks, and blood oranges of a sunset though the sun had barely even risen to the top. Bharat grasped that hand, and washed himself of the grey which had drenched his life before. Bharat grasped that hand, and was pulled into the sky, was pulled into a world of colors.

A/N-So, this entire chapter is for all of those Bharat lovers. I realized that this book was basically becoming about the twins, and obviously, it wasn't meant to be all about the twins, it was supposed to be about the Ramayan. Periodt.

I think I need to change the blurb of this. This was supposed to be about happy or carefree moments, not overtly emotional ones that make us feel bad about the character. The title should be "Emotional Moments", or, as I had chosen to name it earlier "All the Feels". What is it with me and changing titles?

By the way-this double update was a treat since we crossed 300,000!!!