Chapter Text
Later, they would call it an auspicious day.
Later, they would rejoice.
However could they not? A son born from the King of Heavens was bound to be a very victorious one.
Yet on the day, youngest Kunti-putra Arjun was born was a day of tragedy.
The first to lay eyes on the young child was a sage, her eyes were soft as she held the fragile existence in her hands.
Her hands were gentle as she washed the dear thing, and wrapped him in a blanket.
A soft adoring smile on her face as she handed the darling babe to his father.
The father held his son with a promise of life long love in his eyes, the way all fathers do.
The rain was a light drizzle, but enough to make a soft patting noise, the comforting sort.
It was as if the heavens themselves were rejoicing the birth of this young one.
And in their joy they couldn't help but weep.
And then the child opened his eyes.
The young Prince's eyes were like a painter's palate.
All colors mixed together, one gaining more prominence to paint the whole pupil in it's shade only for a different shade to take it's place.
Pandu gasped, and pulled his son closer.
The sage still held a soft warmth in her eyes.
Looking at the exiled King she said, "O King of Hastinapur, O lion among the Kuru, know this. Your son is no mere child. You," her smile turned sadder, "have been blessed by Time Lord himself."
Kunti, who had been faintly sobbing until now, shrieked.
Pandu wanted to comfort his wife, but his son was openly sobbing, now.
Various shades of blue mixing, only for a hue of gray to be the most prominent, blinked at him, both eyes teary.
The sage whispered gently to the Queen of Hastinapur, old wrinkled hands caressing her hair affectionately , "My dear, where does it hurt?"
Kunti was hysterical now, clutching the bedsheets she pointed at the blanket wrapped babe, " HE IS A CURSE!! TAKE HIM AWAY TAKE HIM AWAY! PLEASE FOR ALL THAT IS PURE DROWN HIM!"
Pandu, frowning, held his son closer.
Madri, hearing the shriek, came inside the cottage where Kunti lay.
Her expression seemed panic stricken as she rushed in, however seeing how loudly Kunti screamed for the murder of her own son horror over took it, her hands shook as she looked at her co-wife.
The King gently rocked his son back and forth as he tried to calm him and walked towards his first wife, however Kunti only writhed in agony as she tried to push her exhausted body away from her son.
Seeing how his actions only made things worse, Pandu looked towards his second wife and called out to her, "Madri."
He handed her his third son, "Arjun", the king whispered looking at his son, "my star plucked from the heavens."
Madri took him in her arms gently, she tried to give her husband a reassuring smile, it came out wobbly, she took the child back to where Yudhishthir and Bheem were, playing.
It could be said, that it was on that day itself that Arjun's destiny was decided.
It was perhaps in the harsh rejections of his mother, or the failed platitudes of his father.
(It was in his vehement hatred of hunting, in the awkward silences during meals, in the arms that kept reaching out for motherly affection only to be rejected, in the way oldest brother took the role of a caregiver, in the ways second eldest brother was kinder to him, in the ways chhoti ma was more a mother to him than she ever was to the younger ones.)
(It was in the dreams of a calm meadow, filled with a lonely flute player.)
But then if destiny was as set in stone, maybe the Mahabharat would not have happened.
No, destiny was a culmination of choices fate had provided.
And there was no curse out there as hurtful as the consequences of our own choices.
And in front of our young royals there were many harsh choices waiting.
(Six years hence.)
Arjun though not raised like a prince was definitely spoiled like one.
The harsh treatment of his mother made his father and chhoti ma be extremely indulgent towards the young prince, and eldest brother followed the same pattern.
Thus, his habit of looking for extremely high hanging fruits to throw rocks at despite all the constant rebukes.
It was fun, Arjun had excellent aim.
And getting fruits for himself, ones which carried no threat of being stolen by Bhrata Bheem, was a different sort of joy.
This time though Arjun was certain he was going to be shouted at.
He had spent the last three hours chasing butterflies in the forest.
As a result his clothes were extremely dirty, and it was long past his bedtime.
But no one came to scold him.
Arjun kept waiting. It had been thirty minutes.
It was a routine as familiar as breathing to Arjun, to have it disturbed so, greatly distressed the young six year old Prince.
It was hilarious, in the grand scheme of things a ruined bedtime routine was the most insignificant change.
Yet.....
-this change was one that hurt the child the most.
It was, however, far from the last change the Prince would suffer through.
In the life of the little prince change will come knocking like a hurricane leaving a mess of feelings and a family put together by sheer will behind.
But the young prince knew that not(or maybe hoped not), and, thus he did what children did best- hope.
(How could he not when hope held the form of a dark skinned, flute playing youth? Hope to Arjun was just a different form of love.)
Arjun sighed, feeling exhausted, and yawned.
He kicked at the rocks, chased away rabbits as he tried to find his way back to the clearing where his family resided.
Just when he fell over again, warm hands pulled him close.
Arjun felt bitter disappointment as he noted it to be the familiar figure of his eldest brother( jyeshta) Yudhishthir, "a young strapping lad of thirteen" (as his father put it).
With a weary sigh and a deep breath Yudhishthir steadied himself to scold his younger brother, "Aru, where have you been? I have been looking for you for half an hour."
Arjun scowled, "Not my fauly, where is mama? I was waiting for er."
Yudhistir corrected him, "It's her, Aru."
Arjun shook his head, "No she's not here, also she's a she, not an it."
Yudhistir's right eye twitched, "No, Aru, that was not what I meant."
Arjun spoke voice surprisingly solemn, "You are avoiding the question."
Yudhistir gulped, his little brother's eyes were a curious mix of orange and red, Yudhistir's expression changed dramatically from youthful ease to a profoundly troubled one, he looked sideways avoiding meeting Arjun's eyes directly.
"Aru, can you please not ask? It's better if you don't know."
Arjun maintained his gaze, "Dada."
His voice was soft, carrying the 'a' sound a little too long, and it made Yudhistir's throat tighten, his brother was so young.
He doesn't even know how to spell his own name without mistakenly dragging the 'oo' and making it a 's', how could Yudhidtir possibly break this to him?
Why did it have to even be him in the first place? He wasn't Arjun's parent, he was hurting himself, the closed eyes of his father's seemed so much more vivid than his open eyes had ever seemed.
Those eyes would never open again, that voice will never call out to him, he'll never feel strong arms protecting him against the world, he'll never smell that slightly woody smell that seemed to emanate from his father, he'll never feel those eyes on him again, he'll never have that chest against which he could lean until all his tears disappeared, he'll never hear that quiet chuckle, that fond laugh, that weird cough, that too loud sneeze.
He'll never have his father again.
Neither will he have his chhoti-ma, the woman with a warrior's disposition, a royal's grace.
Her kind smile, her exaggerated stories, her loud snores, her laugh which was never loud, only seldom bright, he will never trace those wrinkles with his eyes again, he'll never hear her scolding him again, he'll never have her worry over him, he'll never see her eyes agin.
In a lot of ways, in all the meaningful ones, Yudhistir lost his childhood that day.
Yudhistir closed his eyes, clutching his brother closer, a few tears slipped out, "Aru, chhoti-ma and pita-shree are no more."
(Yudhishthir really wanted to cry, that was the one thing about this memory, and many that followed after, that Yudhistir had never shared with anyone.)
Arjun didn't say anything back in response, he didn't have to his trembling shoulders said all he couldn't.
In all the ways that mattered, both brothers tried to get solace in each other.
Both trembling, both never letting much sound slip, both still young, still small, still innocent, still so alone, both aching.
There was not much comfort to be found, but maybe it was too early for that, too early for hoping for the grief to ease, too early to pray for a small mercy, too early to do anything but let the heart break in anguish as it screamed, protested, denied, raged, writhed against reality.
In all this, Arjun's mind whipped up the image of a peacock feather crowned boy.
A flute with a tassel in his hands, a soft smile on his face, and love in his eyes.
Miles away the young Gopal felt the agony of his soulmate as it twisted his gut, and he prayed for the first time in his eternal existence that he could be with his Parth.
But how could his prayers be answered for who is to answer your prayers when you yourself are God?