The news had reached Hastinapur a day before. Pandu's household had sent word from the forest. Kunti was three months pregnant with another Devputra.
The palace received the news with the usual excitement that accompanied the arrival of another heir. Servants carried the information from one wing to another. Attendants whispered about it while arranging lamps and preparing the evening meals. Those who had been concerned about the future of the Kuru dynasty found another reason to feel reassured.
Another child. Another potential heir. Another blessing for Pandu's household.
But in the chambers of the king and queen, the same news carried a very different weight.
Gandhari sat beside the window, her blindfold tied securely around her eyes. She had worn it for years. When she had married Dhritarashtra, she had chosen to surrender the world of sight willingly, believing that if her husband had been denied it from birth, she had no right to enjoy what he could never experience.
She had never removed the cloth. Not once. Even now, she sat in darkness by choice, while her husband lived in darkness by fate.
Her hands rested quietly over her abdomen. More than a year had passed. A normal pregnancy should not have lasted this long.
The physicians had examined her again and again. The elders had offered prayers. Priests had spoken of divine will. Some had reminded her that Mahadev himself had granted her the boon of a hundred sons.
A hundred sons.
The blessing that should have filled her heart with joy had become a mystery she did not know how to understand.
Why had the child not been born? Why had the months continued to pass? Why did everyone tell her to have faith when even she no longer knew what she was supposed to hope for?
And now Kunti was already three months pregnant again.
Gandhari lowered her head. She did not blame Kunti. She never had.
But she knew what the news did to Dhritarashtra. She knew because she knew her husband. She knew the silence that came over him whenever the matter of an heir was mentioned. She knew how carefully he listened whenever messengers brought news from the forest. She knew how much the question of succession weighed upon him. And she knew that this news would hurt.
A soft knock came at the door. Gandhari straightened slightly.
"Come in."
The door opened. She heard the familiar footsteps. Dhritarashtra entered. He did not speak. Gandhari waited. The silence between them stretched. She could hear the faint movement of his robes as he stopped a short distance away.
"You did not come yesterday." Her voice was quiet.
"I know." His answer was equally quiet, but there was no softness in it.
Gandhari's fingers tightened against the fabric in her lap. For a few moments, neither Dhritarashtra nor Gandhari spoke. The silence between them was heavier than any accusation could have been.
Dhritarashtra stood near the centre of the chamber, his face turned towards the sound of the closing doors. Gandhari remained beside the window, her hands resting loosely over the folds of her saree. Her eyes remained covered, as they had been since the day she had entered Hastinapur as his wife.
Yet, for once, Dhritarashtra felt as though she could see everything. He could hear the restraint in her breathing. He knew that restraint. It was the same restraint she had carried through their marriage-the restraint of a woman who had accepted more than she had ever complained about.
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Suryansh ~ The Ansh of Sun
Historical Fiction"For thirteen years, Yudhishthira dreamed of Karna. At first, he came like Yama himself-dark, merciless, inevitable. Yudhishthira would run. He would wake trembling, certain that Death had come for him. The same nightmare repeated ev...
