Lying on a bed of arrows, blood trickling down my body and soaking the ground beneath me, I gazed at the sky. The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving streaks of red that merged with hues of orange, creating a mosaic effect. Clouds drifted across the vast expanse, one of them reflecting my image. My shiny, silvery hair cascaded down my shoulders, mingling with my blood. Wrinkles ran across my face like intersecting alleys, and my weary yet resolute eyes encased a plentitude of unvoiced emotions. Blood oozed from the wounds that punctured my firm frame. My grit and perseverance seemed to escape my mortal form, yet I continued to live daily, witnessing the destruction around me.

"I will remain celibate and protect Hastinapur and our family until my last breath." The words I had spoken decades ago, during my youth, echoed in my ears.

My father's queen, Satyavati, had flashed a victorious smile in response.

 As I reflected on my vows, I questioned whether I had fulfilled my promise. Did I protect my family? The blood and ashes floating on the pristine waters opined otherwise.

 Why did I remain celibate? If I had been a household, would my dedication have been any different? My thoughts shifted, and I found my imagination spiraling down a magical path - the road I had refused to walk on, the journey I had left untaken.

My dark hair framed my chiseled face, and my eyes, calm yet fierce, were fixed on the ebbing river. The water shimmering under the sunlight, reflecting my warm yet resolute smile. Dressed in the finest silk outfit, I stood tall, my posture exuding grace and confidence. As I admired my bronze skin, I walked along the banks of the river Ganga, my face a canvas of surging and receding emotions.

 In the distance, I noticed my father, King Shantanu, sitting on the ground, the holy Ganga wetting his fine garments. He buried his left hand in the damp soil and rested his right hand on the forehead as if weighed down by an unspoken burden. His brows were furrowed, his eyes closed, and his posture drooped as though he was on the brink of giving up.

"Father, you seem worried. What is concerning you?" I spoke, bringing my palms together and bowing in reverence.

My father looked at me for a split second before looking away. His gaze was fixed on my mother River Ganga as though he sought answers from her. I sat beside him and waited in silence.

"Devarth, I wish to marry Satyavati, the daughter of fisherman chieftain Dasharaja. She likes me but is worried about her status in our kingdom," he said, his eyes darting nervously, reflecting his restless mind.

"Father, if her concern is me and my future family, I solemnly swear to remain celibate for the rest of my life. I promise to protect my brothers, born of Mother Satyavati, from internal and external enemies, and offer my unbiased guidance and support in every aspect of their lives. Additionally, I relinquish my right to the throne of Hastinapur. I will instead serve as an attendant, providing selfless service to the kingdom, " I said, gently releasing his hand from the mud and squeezing it.

My father looked at me for a moment, his wise eyes assessing the credibility of my words. The River Ganga surged, reaffirming her assurance in my vow.

"Devrath, I'm proud of you," he said, embracing me tightly.

Tears of relief streamed down his cheeks, landing on my broad shoulders. On an auspicious day, my father married the woman of his choice, Queen Satyavati, who soon gave birth to two sons, Chitrangada and Vichitravirya. She also had a son, Vyaasa. We lived together in Hastinapur, united by love, respect, and harmony.

However, sorrow crept into our lives like a pest. King Shantanu reached for the heavenly abode, and Chitrangada, too, left us before he could learn the ropes of kingship. Vichitravirya was crowned king, but he lacked the strength - both physical and emotional- to rule wisely. He did not possess the indomitable spirit our father had. During this time, Queen Satyavati and I ruled the kingdom until Vichitravirya got married. Unfortunately, his legacy didn't last long.

The sky echoed with the tunes of Krishna's conch. Horses neighed, and elephants trumpeted as they made their way to the battleground. Men marched their spears, swords, maces, and arrows swishing through the air. A sharp, piercing pain shot through my body, and my skin began to turn a tad pale. The bed of arrows was now inundated by rivulets of my blood. I saw Karna leading the Kaurava army, while Krishna stood firm, his towering frame guiding and protecting the Pandavas. The battle was nearing its end, and I knew my mind had to move quickly. I realized my life was filled with regrets, yet I wished to die a free man.

The air was heavy with anticipation as scholars, sages, and warriors, dressed in their finest attire, lined the aisles, eagerly awaiting a glimpse of the king-to-be. Dhritarashtra's footfall echoed across the floor as he entered, his long robe shimmering under the glowing lamps. A smug smile played on his lips as he walked to the center of the dais and settled into a cushioned chair. His sculpted chest rose and fell with each breath, muscles rippling beneath his taut skin. His expression radiated desire and elegance - a blend of masculinity and strength tinged with unease. He was bathed with turmeric water, milk, and sandalwood paste.

 Women danced joyfully, their anklets jingling in harmony with the lively atmosphere. The royal priest, Kripacharya, draped a robe around Dhritarashtra's shoulders and placed the crown on his head. The hall erupted with cheers and applause. Queen Gandhari sat beside him, a subtle smile playing on her lips, her face reflecting a blend of pride and hesitance, as though she sensed the impending doom. Flowers rained upon the royal couple, filling the air with their sweet fragrance. The thick scent of incense momentarily eased my worries, and I offered my blessings to them.

 Hastinapur glowed with opulence and unbridled joy, yet Dhritarashtra's happiness was laced with caution. He was to serve as a king only until the princes reached the appropriate age. Though I believed in Dritarashtra's capabilities, a part of me wished for Pandu to be crowned king. I wished he had not given up the throne to lead an ascetic life. I was convinced that Pandu would have made a better choice for King. Anxiety coursed through the deep furrows on my forehead, and that night, I barely managed to sleep.

The next morning, I stood on the banks of the river Ganga, waiting for the first rays of the sun to grace the earth. After offering salutations to the mighty ball of fire, I settled onto the ground.

"Mother, my mind is muddled, and I seek your counsel," I said, closing my eyes in a silent prayer.

The water spiraled like a tornado, and I saw a divine form walking out of it.

"Devrath," she spoke, her voice carrying a calming aura.

My eyes misted on hearing that name. The name Bhishma had been conferred upon me, a matter of pride for some. Over the years, my birth name, Devrath, had, slipped into oblivion.

"What is bothering you?" my mother asked, her voice interrupting my thoughts.

"The coronation ceremony went well, Mother. The throne of Hastinapur has finally breathed an air of relief. But I'm uncertain about Dhritarashtra's intentions. Will he treat Pandu's children as his own? When the time comes, will he choose a capable successor? Will his decision remain unbiased?" I spoke, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders.

"You can't change destiny. Everyone makes their choices based on their needs, desires, and ambitions. When the time comes, the Supreme Force will make his move, and your lives will be altered. So, Devrath, live in the moment. Perform your duties, love your family, and guide them. Be prepared to renounce the worldly attachments when the opportune moment arrives," my mother said, her radiant smile soothing my heart.

Years passed. Pandu's wife, Kunti gave birth to five sons, while Gandhari delivered a hundred sons. Yudhishtir was the eldest of the Pandavas, and Duryodhan was the eldest of the Kaurava clan. Gandhari's brother, Shakuni, visited Hastinapur and made our kingdom his home. His squinted eyes and malicious grin spiked the sense of unease within me. Everything about him felt wrong, and his intentions seemed evil. He changed his demeanor faster than a chameleon. I tried to discuss my concerns with Dhritarashtra, but his mind was enslaved by Shakuni's influence. Gandhari had sacrificed the gift of vision to marry Dritarashtra,  and she sought comfort in her brother's presence. I didn't want to cause her any sorrow, so, I tolerated Shakuni's antics.

Pandu departed, leaving a shadow of darkness over Hastinapur. After his death, I urged Kunti to return home with her children. The presence of the Pandava brothers sowed seeds of insecurity in Duryodhan's heart. He made snide, derisive remarks that angered Bhim, the second of the Pandava brothers. Yudhistir, the eldest brother- poised, wise, and righteous among all the princes-tried to pacify his brother. Through his warm and virtuous approach, he tried to win Duryodhana's friendship and confidence, but his efforts went to waste. The insecurities sprouting in Durodhan's mind grew roots of anger and envy. In an attempt to claim a monopoly over the throne of Hastinapur, he constantly provoked the Pandava brothers. He challenged Bhim to a mace duel and made every effort to prove his superiority. Yet, each time, the Pandava princes emerged victorious. Duryodhan felt cornered and humiliated; the endless defeat washed over him like a tide, eroding his confidence. The constant failure ignited his ego, releasing toxic fumes of resentment.

Vidhura and I helped the brothers reconcile. We encouraged them to play together, organized picnics by the river bank, and made them complete royal tasks as a team. One morning, while I was strolling in the garden in my backyard, Duryodhan approached me, accompanied by Shakuni.

"I wish to organize a picnic on the banks of the Ganga," Duryodhan said. "Brother Yudhistir has been kind to me, forgiving my mistakes and guiding me toward the right path. I want to express my gratitude and extend a hand of friendship." He bowed his head, his gaze fixed on the carpeted floor.

Shankuni smiled, his lips turning into a crooked grin. He folded his palms, feigning reverence, while his narrowed eyes gleamed with malevolence. I suspected their intentions were as sinister as they appeared, but I agreed.

"Go ahead, but be careful. I don't want you boys to fight," I said sternly.

"We will be good," Duryodhan replied, masking his animosity with the facade of goodwill.

Shakuni's lopsided smile, wily wink, and self-assured strut unsettled me. I wish I had stopped Duryodhan. The hundred and five princes left the mansion at dawn. Standing in the royal enclave, I had a vantage view of the proceedings. Duryodhan approached Yudhishtir, looking visibly delighted. The brothers engaged in a conversation which, in my opinion, led to a fruitful outcome for Yudhistir embraced Duryodhan. The Pandava brothers climbed into one chariot, while the Kauravas boarded the other waiting chariots. Duryodhan unexpectedly joined the Pandava brothers. His gesture should have assuaged my anxiety. On the contrary, it aggravated my mistrust of him. The colossal gates opened, the horses galloped and I watched the boys leave the mansion with soldiers in tow. I felt a flutter in my stomach; my eyelids twitched, the veins in my forehead bulged, and my heart raced.

A cuckoo settled on a red-colored rose, its vibrant hue enhancing the bird's beauty. Seated in the courtyard, I designed new military formations, knowing one must keep their tools in top shape. I had conveniently ignored the gossip that Hastinapur harbored in-house enemies, fooling myself into believing that my ignorance wouldn't lead me into a cavernous pit that would eventually drain the life out of me. The dipping sun cast gentle hues on the royal mansion, subduing the effects of a taxing day.

"The Kuru princes are back from the picnic, and Minister Vidur wants to see you," announced a soldier.

I gestured to the soldier to let him in with a wave. Vidur, Dhritarashtra's younger brother and Hastinapur's minister, entered the courtyard. He bowed, tears escaping his eyes and landing on the marble floor.

"Bhim is missing," he said, his voice barely audible.

"Kunti Maa is unwell," said one of the female helpers as she entered unannounced.

I stood up, the ink bottle slipping from my hands, the colored liquid forming a pool on the floor. I rushed to Kunti's chamber, sweat trickling down my brow. Vidhura followed me. Kunti lay crumpled on the floor, curled like a ball of yarn, while a royal doctor attended to her. Her children surrounded her, their faces etched with worry. Arjun clenched his wrist, his knuckles turning white. Tears rolled in Nakul's eyes. He held Sahadev's hand tightly, finding comfort in the grasp. Yudhistir stood firm, his face stoic. Bhim's absence was evident. I walked up to Yudhistir and wrapped my arm around his shoulders.  

"Bhim is missing and Maa lost consciousness on hearing the news," Yudhistir spoke, his voice heavy with sorrow.

His lean frame stood rooted to the spot, a shudder running down his sturdy spine. He held a steady gaze, unwavering and composed like it was carved from a stone. His eyes were calm, like a serene sea amid a turbulent storm.

"How did Bhim go missing? Tell me what happened. Tell me everything, from the start," I said.

"We were playing on the river bank. Arjun built a hut with arrows while the Kaurava brothers sat on a tree and collected the fruits. Nakul and Sahadev tried to climb the tree, but Dushasan stopped them. He said that the fruits belonged to only the King's sons and that they were children of the outcasts. Bhim was about to take a swing at Dushasan, but I intervened," Yudhistir recounted, his breath catching in his throat.

"You should have let him take the swing," Arjun said.

Yudhistir silenced him with a stare.

"Duryodhan invited Bhim to the kitchen, requesting him to taste the pudding. Given his love for food, Bhim immediately agreed. That was the last time I saw him," said Yudhistir, his emotions overwhelming his usual stoic demeanor.

I gripped the loose end of my robe, my nails digging into the fabric.

"Organize a search team and look for Bhim. Don't return until you find him," I ordered, my baritone voice breaking the silence.

Soldiers marched out of the chambers, their footsteps fading into the darkness. There was no news of Bhim. With deep sorrow, everyone presumed the young boy, with his muscular frame and immense strength, was no longer with us. No one voiced those thoughts, but deep down, everyone recognized the inevitability of loss. Hastinapur didn't witness the dawn; instead, darkness enveloped the city in a harrowing eclipse.

Ten days passed. The courtyards remained deserted, devoid of color and warmth. The door sills were bare, lacking even a trace of turmeric. Women wore drab clothing and refused to brighten their homes with lamps, having lost their beloved. On the eleventh day, a thin ray of sunlight seeped through the huge windows, illuminating the dispirited mansion. The Sun slowly rose above the horizon, casting light on all the living beings. Through the divine glow, a rotund figure emerged and made his way through the enormous arches. I peered through the brilliant light, and with every passing second, the figure became clearer. The towering figure walked toward the mansion, his eyes burning with fierce determination. His face reflected a thirst for justice. He bore a somber expression but beneath the grim face was a fiery temper. He lifted his gaze and his eyes met mine. A wave of disbelief mingled with happiness ran down my spine. It was Bhima, our chubby, vivacious boy. Yet today, he appeared different. There was something uncanny about him; a change had taken place within him. I rushed to embrace him, wanting to feel his physical form one more time.

Kunti and his brothers rushed to him, and he enveloped them in a bear hug. From the corner of his eye, he glared at Duryodhan, who cowered in terror. His eyes were ablaze with fury. That one look confirmed my greatest fear: Duryodhan and his uncle Shakuni had plotted something dreadful. As anger surged through me, Bhim approached and touched my feet. I hugged him, tears coursing down my luxurious beard and soaking his shoulders.

"Where have you been all these days?" I asked, bracing myself for the worst news.

"At the picnic, Duryodhan and his brothers fed me poisoned pudding. After I lost consciousness, they tossed me into the river, believing I would drown. But I reached the Naga's realm. They neutralized the poison, fed me nectar and now I possess the strength of ten thousand elephants. I can trample the strongest of men under my feet," he spoke, laughing thunderously.

Duryodhan had left the scene by then.

"You go and rest, Bhim. Let me handle this situation," I said.

Kunti looked at me, her eyes turbulent with questions.

"You promised me that my sons would be safe here," she said, her voice trembling, each word a battle between anger and sorrow.

"Your children will be safe," I assured her, my voice hoarse.

I formed a fist, the blood vessels in my jaw throbbing beneath my clenched teeth. I walked toward the king's chamber, the palace thundering beneath my footsteps. The king leaned against a panel, the flowers crumpling in his grip. There was a palpable tension, a weight of something detrimental looming over us.

"Please forgive my sons," Dhritarashtra pleaded, collapsing at my feet.

"Mistakes can be forgiven. Sins deserve punishment," I spoke, my words edged with steel.

"But he is just a kid," said Dhritarashtra, unable to believe his own words.

I looked away.

"Please give him another chance," begged the king.

It was a pity to witness the king who despite his physical disability proved to be a mighty, worthy, and shrewd ruler, falling apart. This was one of the consequences of his blind love for his sons. He was oblivious to their misdeeds, his unbridled love costing him his dignity. His words alleviated my fury but failed at softening my resolve.

"Shakuni must leave Hastinapur immediately and never return. Duryodhan and his brothers will be locked in their chambers for a month. After their imprisonment, they must work in the fields and barn, living the life of commoners for six months. They would be stripped of all the luxuries and comforts of a royal life. Furthermore, Duryodhan and his brothers must seek forgiveness from Kunti." I spoke my words echoing in the uncanny silence.

The punishment wasn't proportionate to the sin committed. The retribution seemed unfair compared to the offenses. But I believed that Shakuni was the schemer; Duryodhan was just a pawn in his game of chess. With Shakuni gone, I hoped Duryodhan would seek redemption and become kinder. He was one of our own, carrying the lineage of the Kuru family, and he deserved a second chance.

"Your wish is my command," said Dhritarashtra, visibly relieved.

Under my watchful gaze, Shakuni left Hastinapur, much to his chagrin. After six months, Duryodhan appeared remorseful. There was a shift in his tone, a subdued change in his demeanor. The smirk was replaced by quietude. The paradigm shift in the circumstances seemed to assuage Kunti's worries. Hastinapur returned to its ancient splendor. The kingdom was restored to its original resplendence. There was peace and harmony. However, the facade of goodness reeked of malice and the stench didn't go unnoticed.

The sun sank, casting on the world a spell of darkness. Injured soldiers lay on the ground, blood oozing out of their wounds. They winced, groaned, and shrieked in pain. They cried, their mutilated forms seeking mercy. They wished for death to befall them and put an end to their misery. Through my drooping eyes, I noticed Arjun walking towards me with a pot in his hands. He was bringing me water. Bhishma, the son of Ganga, the eternal quencher was parched, every inch of his mortal being craving water. Arjun would sit beside me and wipe the blood with his fine robe and ward off the insects feeding on my bodily fluids. He would caress my head in an attempt to free me from my pain, his touch laced with guilt and regret. My physical pain was negligible when compared to the pain that ripped my soul apart. My soul was burdened with guilt and regrets. A thorny fabric laced with the weight of wrong decisions hugged my conscience stabbing it and puncturing it. As strange as it may seem, the physical pain freed me.  My mind zigzagged to those uncharted territories again.

Duryodhan continued to concoct plans that tormented the Pandavas. But this time, he did it surreptitiously, covering his tracks. Upon Vidura's counsel, the elders of Hastinapur decided to do the inevitable. As an attempt to force a truce between the cousins, Hastinapur was divided into two. King Dhritarashtra slyly tricked Pandavas into accepting an arid portion of the kingdom. Though reluctantly, I condoned the King's act for the safety of Pandu's sons was of paramount importance to me. With exemplary fortitude, the five brothers transformed the arid land into a magnificent city Indraprastha. The news about their prosperity and extravagant lifestyle reached Duryodhan. It didn't go well with the ravenous, self-indulgent prince. The prince with the blessings of his father organized a feast in honour of the Pandavas. He sent an invite to his cousins. The invitation was laced with gold and embellished with rubies. The brothers would eat, drink, make merry, and engage in a game of dice, the invite read. I sensed something sinister in Duryodhan's magnanimous gesture. Vidhur opined the same and confirmed my fears. The Kaurava prince invited his uncle Shakuni much to my disdain.

"Shakuni cannot set foot in Hastinapur," I said, my voice akin to a roar.

"He will be here as one of the invitees. It is only for a day or two, Grandfather. Please consider it a request," said Duryodhan, his hands folded in mock reverence, a foxy glint in his eyes.

I instructed two soldiers, my confidants, to watch the Gandhar prince.

"Watch every move he makes. Don't leave him alone even for a second," I said.

Ten days went by. Hastinapur looked like a happy bride. The city was decked in flowers. Marigolds, hibiscus, and jasmine were festooned in every nook and corner. Every house glittered like diamonds. The royal chefs prepared a lavish meal in honor of the Pandavas. I had my best spies test the food. They confirmed that there was no foul play. The Pandavas with their consort Draupadi arrived at Hastinapur. Queen Gandhari welcomed them by applying a streak of vermilion on their foreheads. She warmly hugged Draupadi and guided the empress to her chamber. The men were guided to a private chamber, where they drank wine and engaged in friendly banter on topics ranging from politics to recent swayamvaras held in other kingdoms.

A day went by. In the center of the royal court, a dais was decked in fine silk. A wooden board shining in the glory of the thousand lamps awaited the cousins.

"Come on, Brother. It's time we get the dice rolling," said Duryodhan, his dusky face stretched in a derisive smile.

Yudhistir followed him to the dais. Shakuni rolled a pair of dice in his hands, his small eyes, a pool of nefarious thoughts.

"Shall we begin?" he asked, his mind foreseeing the consequences of his savage act.

The game began. Yudhistir lost his possessions one by one. He lost his wealth, kingdom, and even his brothers to Duryodhan.

"I'm putting my wife Draupadi..." I stood up, pushed my chair away with my feet, and stopped Yudhistir midway.

"Stop, son, you cannot put your wife at stake. She isn't your possession but your pride. She is a part of you," I spoke, my voice surging and falling like the tides in the sea.

Tears rolled in my blazing eyes.

"You must not interrupt the game," said King Dhritarashtra.

"I can and I will," I said and walked to the dais.

"Stop this rigged game and return Yudhistir's possessions rightfully to him," I said, my muscles tensed.

"My nephew has won this wealth rightfully. You cannot order him to return it," said Shakuni, his squeaky voice reeking of a fiendish intent.

I walked to Shakuni, each step a resonance of my deep-seated resentment and wrath. With my arms crossed against my chest, I stood facing him. He groveled like a deer caught in a lion's trap.

"Step back, Shakuni. Now is the time to save yourself. Go back to Gandhaar and never return. If not, I'll come for you, tear you apart and you will beg me to kill you," I said, my voice deep and eerily calm.

Balls of fire rolled in my eyes, threatening to annihilate those wronging my Kingdom. Shakuni took a step back and whispered in Duryodhan's ears. The Kaurava prince flinched but immediately got his guards up.

"I will challenge the Pandavas for a battle," said Duryodhan, not so confidently.

"You will do no such thing," I said.

"If you do so, I'm on Pandava's side. I will fight for them, my mace and sword doing all the talking," I added, the mansion trembling under the weight of my words.

"You promised King Shantanu," spoke Dhritarashtra only to be silenced by my fiery gaze for the second time.

"I remember my promise. O King, I'm trying to protect your son here. I'm preventing him from committing an unpardonable sin and by doing that I'm saving your son from himself. I'm sparing you of the heartache. You don't want to bear the loss of a young son," I mentioned, shocking everyone with my words.

The royal ladies rushed to the court. Queen Gandhari drove sense into her son. Albeit reluctantly, Duryodhan apologized to Yudhistir and returned his possessions. The Pandavas along with Draupadi returned to Indraprastha. The families lived in peace, harmony still a distant dream.

The sight of blood dribbling down Draupadi's hair indicated that Bhim had fulfilled his promise. Dushasan was dead. I closed my eyes and flinched. My life was a result of the choices I made. The choices shaped my life and wrote my destiny. My untaken journey was beautiful and fulfilling. How I wished I had walked on the untrodden path. How I wish I had taken that journey. Our lives would have been different. Hastinapur would still be thriving. And, here I was lying on the bed of arrows, reflecting on my life and dreaming about the untaken journey. All that remained now was a series of if-only and a tapestry of regrets. I sighed and watched my family getting ready to face another day of devastation. I closed my eyes and waited for the battle to end. I would then impart my knowledge to Yudhistir, the able Emperor and finally attain eternal peace.

Author's Note

What would have happened if Bhishma hadn't taken that rigorous vow? This question forms the base for my fictional story. This story is a figment of my imagination and  I don't intend to hurt the sentiments of the readers. 

Pic Courtesy : Co Pilot