Chapter 71: The Princess of Complicated Hearts
The echoes of Kalapradarshan had not yet faded from Hastinapur, but their shadows had already begun weaving new stories.
Among those tales, hidden from the drums and conches, bloomed a quiet yet potent longing—one seeded deep in the heart of a princess.
Dushala.
The youngest scion of the Kuru bloodline. The single flower among a forest of warriors. The sister to a hundred brothers, cherished like a rare gem, and shielded from war and politics like a sacred scroll.
But Dushala had changed.
Not outwardly. She still smiled politely to the maids. She still adorned herself in delicate silks. She still walked with grace across the marbled corridors.
But within? A storm raged.
—
It began the day Rudra bhaiya appeared in the Kalapradarshan.
Since childhood, she had heard the stories. Tales told by her elder brothers. Of a kingdom named Mahishmati, ancient and radiant. Of a boy born not from luxury, but from destiny. Of a warrior who sparred with lions before he could speak in full sentences.
Rudra. The hidden prince. The roaring silence.
Even Bhishma, the grand pillar of the Kuru lineage, had spoken of him once to her father Dhritarashtra in a hushed conversation.
"He walks like wind... but strikes like lightning."
And then, during Kalapradarshan, she saw him.
He didn't enter like others. He emerged. From nowhere. From the audience. From the ether.
His dark, radiant form cloaked in divine rage. His bare chest marked with ash and Rudraksha. His eyes—silver and black—burning with something older than wrath. Something deeper.
He stood, his presence drowning the arena into silence. And Dushala's heart, until then a calm stream, surged like a flood.
Her eyes didn't blink. Her breath didn't return.
It wasn't infatuation. It wasn't fantasy.
It was awe.
Until he raised his blade against Bheem.
The brother who once carried her on his shoulders to catch mangoes. The same brother who had defended her when the stable boys teased her about her soft voice.
And Rudra had nearly cut him down.
She couldn't scream. She couldn't breathe. And yet… her heart didn't retreat.
It was treachery to feel what she felt. But emotions are crueler than truth.
When Rudra vanished from the arena, smoke curling in his wake, her gaze remained. Searching. Waiting. Yearning.
—
The palace was heavy with silence. Kunti, her kaaki, looked hollow. Yudhishthir avoided her eyes. Bheem hadn't spoken since.
And Dushala?
She stood alone by her window. Watching the skies. Remembering every step Rudra took.
She dreamed of him. Of walking beside him. Of standing as his equal—not just as a woman, but as a warrior.
And in those dreams, another face emerged—Ishita.
The blade maiden of Mahishmati. The one whose words struck like spears. The one who faced down Pandavas, unblinking.
Dushala envied her. Worshipped her.
"I don't want to be a doll behind silk curtains," she whispered to herself. "I want to be seen. Respected. Feared. Loved."
—
When whispers spread that Duryodhan, along with Vikarna, Dushasan, and other Kaurava princes, were journeying to Mahishmati to find Gurus—as advised by Maharishi Vyas—Dushala knew this was her moment.
That night, she entered Gandhari's chamber.
The queen mother sat in prayer, her blindfold soaked in sandalwood fragrance, her breathing calm.
"Maa," Dushala said softly.
Gandhari turned, instantly recognizing her daughter.
"You have a storm in your voice, my child. What troubles you?"
"I wish to go with my brothers."
A pause.
"To Mahishmati."
Gandhari straightened.
"Why?"
"To train. To learn Shastra-Vidya. Like Ishita."
A longer silence.
Kunti, seated beside her, looked up.
"But Dushala, you are a princess."
"And what has that given me?" Dushala snapped. "Silks? Bangles? Powerless tears?"
"You speak with pain," Gandhari said gently. "This is not just about training. Is it?"
Dushala lowered her gaze.
"I… I saw Rudra bhaiya. I felt something. And I cannot unfeel it. But what right do I have to even think of him, if I am nothing but a pretty flower?"
Kunti's eyes filled with emotion.
"You are more than that. But the path you wish to walk is difficult."
"Then I'll bleed. But I'll walk it."
Gandhari rose.
"If this is truly your wish, Dushala, then go. Become more. But do not lose who you are in the pursuit of who you wish to be."
Dushala touched her feet.
"I will return as someone worthy of your pride."
—
Next morning, Duryodhan prepared for departure. The royal courtyard was alive with final arrangements. Weapons checked. Horses readied. Chariots polished.
Dushala entered in leather-bound robes. A blade at her waist.
"Bhrata," she said.
Duryodhan turned, startled.
"Dushala?"
"Take me with you."
"To Mahishmati?"
"Yes. I want to train. I want to become like Ishita. And maybe... stand beside Rudra bhaiya one day."
Duryodhan smiled faintly.
"He would be proud to see the fire he lit."
"And you?"
"I will protect you. But not from the path you've chosen. Only from those who try to block it."
She bowed.
"Then let's begin."
—
At dawn, the royal convoy moved through the gates. Golden banners of Kuru flapped in the wind.
Duryodhan led, his armor shining. Beside him, his brothers—eyes sharp, hearts focused.
And among them, her veil replaced with armor, sat Dushala.
She looked back once—at the city of her birth. Then forward.
Toward Mahishmati.
For it was not just the Kauravas who traveled that path.
On another route, with different purpose but the same destination, rode Yudhishthir, Arjun, Nakul, and Kunti. They too were headed to Mahishmati—not for a Guru, but for a reunion.
With one long denied.
Karna.
But that story, too, would come soon.
For now, the wind carried only one name across the plains:
"Mahishmati."
Chapter Ends...