Chapter 31: Mother's pain

The wind at Khandavaprastha tasted of iron and ash. The land was cracked, the trees brittle. It groaned beneath the feet of the Pandavas as they walked it the first morning—each step a silent judgment.

"This is our inheritance?" Bhima muttered, eyes scanning the skeletal remains of what had once been a forest, now more graveyard than greenery.

Yudhishthira remained quiet, but his knuckles were white around his staff. Arjuna stood ahead of them, arms folded, jaw tight.

"Let them call it a curse," Arjuna said. "We'll make it thunder."

---

But that night, Arjuna left the camp alone.

He crossed the ruined field under a shroud of stars, his mind boiling with fury. The dry winds howled through broken branches as if mocking his silence.

When he reached the dead center of the wasteland, he raised his voice to the sky.

"Come down, Father."

The stars pulsed.

"Indra!" he shouted. "You gave me birth and then gave me dust! You owe me more than bloodlines and stories."

Silence.

Arjuna's voice grew thunderous. "You gave me a bow, a name—but you left me land that can't feed a squirrel. If you are a king among gods, show me now that you are more than myth!"

Lightning cracked.

Clouds churned.

And then, like a tear in the world, Indra descended.

Golden armor blazed like a second sun. His eyes glowed with electric judgment.

"You dare summon me in rage?"

Arjuna stood his ground. "I summon you as a son who refuses to inherit silence."

Indra studied him.

Then, slowly, a smile broke across his face.

"Good."

He raised his arm, and a flash of light erupted across the horizon.

"You will not shape this land alone. I will command Vishwakarma to build you a city that even the stars will envy."

---

The next morning, a golden beam struck the center of Khandavaprastha.

Vishwakarma, god of architecture and divine creation, appeared in the brilliance.

He was tall, silent, with eyes like molten silver and hands that remembered the shapes of heaven.

He nodded to Krishna, to Arjuna, and finally to Agasthya.

"Tell me what you dream," he said.

"A city for dharma," Arjuna replied.

"A city that endures," Krishna added.

Agasthya said nothing. But his presence was enough.

Vishwakarma turned.

"Then watch."

---

The work began with thunder.

The ground cracked open to reveal aquifers. Rivers returned where none had flowed in generations. Stones rose like breath drawn upward. Pillars spiraled toward the sun.

Walls shaped themselves with chants.

Bridges arched like the wings of divine birds.

Within days, a city bloomed from wasteland.

Indraprastha.

And as the towers rose, Krishna and Agasthya watched from the hill.

"Even a curse can become a temple," Krishna whispered.

"Only if the one cursed still dares to build," Agasthya replied.

---

That night, beneath the dome of the newly built temple, Kunti found them.

Krishna and Agasthya stood beneath a tree, the stars behind them.

Kunti walked slowly, her fingers clenched into trembling fists. Her face was tired—older than grief, worn by silence.

"He is mine," she said, voice raw.

They turned.

She took a shaky breath. "Karna. He is my first son. I bore him before I was a mother, before I was a queen. Before I was allowed to feel love without shame."

Agasthya's gaze darkened. "You left him to rot among ashes. To suffer for your dignity."

"I was a child," she said. "Alone. Terrified. The world would have crucified me for a mistake made by innocence."

"Then you let the world crucify him instead."

Kunti's voice cracked. "I watched him grow up in the shadows. I saw his glory through other people's eyes, never once able to call him mine."

Krishna remained quiet, watching them both.

"I thought it was too late," Kunti whispered. "And I see now—it is."

Agasthya's voice was quieter, but colder. "You don't get to claim him now that he's risen from what you buried."

Tears fell freely now. "I know," she said. "But please. Tell him. One day. That he was never unloved. Not truly."

Agasthya looked away, his jaw tight. "He won't believe it."

Krishna stepped in gently, his tone soft as the wind. "But perhaps, when it matters most, he'll remember it."

Kunti stepped back, shoulders slumped, and vanished into the corridor of shadows.

And Indraprastha gleamed behind them, born of fury, sacrifice, and truths spoken too late.