Kunti climbed the hill above the stream, her boots scuffing the dry earth as she stepped into a clearing ringed by tall grasses. The stream's faint hum drifted up from below, a steady whisper beneath the rustle of leaves. Her crimson sari billowed around her, catching the morning breeze, the hem still streaked with dirt from yesterday's work by the water. She stopped in the center, her dark hair whipping across her face, and took a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly as she raised them to the sky. The clouds above swirled, their edges glinting gold, as if the heavens themselves were stirring awake.
Pandu watched from the shade of a cedar tree at the clearing's edge, his patched tunic dark with sweat from hauling wood all night. He stood with his hands clasped tight, fingers digging into his palms, his gray eyes fixed on Kunti like she was the only thing in the world. Madri lingered a few steps away, near a thorn bush that snagged at her green sari. She tugged it free with a quick, sharp pull, her eyes narrowing against the rising wind, her hands restless as she twisted the fabric between her fingers. The air felt alive, buzzing with something unseen, and the three of them stood in silence, waiting.
Kunti's voice broke the quiet, low and steady at first, chanting the mantra she'd kept secret for so long. The words rolled out, unfamiliar yet heavy with power, and the wind picked up, tugging harder at her sari. Pandu shifted, his breath catching, and muttered under his breath, "Come on, please, let it work." Madri glanced at him, her lips pressing tight, but she said nothing, her green sari fluttering as she stepped back, the thorns pricking at her hem again.
The sky answered before Kunti finished. A deep hum filled the air, vibrating through the ground, and a voice echoed from above, vast and calm, like a river flowing through stone. "You have called me, woman of true heart," it said, and Pandu's head snapped up, his eyes wide. "I am Dharma, lord of truth and justice. I grant you a son, one who will uphold righteousness in a world of shadow." Thunder rolled, soft but insistent, and the ground trembled faintly beneath their feet.
Kunti's chants peaked, her arms stretching higher, and a golden light spilled over her, warm and bright, washing the clearing in a glow that made the grasses shimmer. Her face lit up, her dark eyes shining, and she gasped as Yudhishthira emerged, his infant cry sharp and pure, cutting through the hum like a bell. His skin glowed, radiant as the dawn, and the air pulsed with warmth, as if the sun itself had reached down to touch him. Birds burst from the trees, a flock of sparrows and doves circling overhead with joyous shrieks, their wings flashing in the golden light. The sky flared, a brilliant gold, and a celestial blessing rang out, clear and triumphant: "He shall uphold righteousness, a beacon in the dark."
Pandu stumbled forward, his boots catching on a root, tears streaking his face as he dropped to his knees beside Kunti. He reached out, his hands shaking, and cradled the boy, his voice breaking as he whispered, "Yudhishthira. My son. Son of justice." The baby's tiny fingers curled around his thumb, and Pandu laughed, a ragged, joyful sound, his gray eyes glistening as he looked up at Kunti. "You did it. You really did it."
Kunti lowered her arms, her breath coming fast, her crimson sari settling around her as the golden light faded. She smiled, small and tired, but her eyes stayed steady, watching Pandu with the child. "I told you it would work," she said, her voice soft but firm, like she was anchoring herself after the storm of it all. She brushed a strand of hair from her face, her fingers still trembling slightly, and knelt beside him, her hand resting lightly on Yudhishthira's head.
Madri stepped back, her green sari snagging again on the thorn bush, and she yanked it free with a quick tug. Her hands twisted the fabric tight, her smile forced as she spoke, her voice quiet but sharp at the edges. "He's beautiful, Kunti. Congratulations. Really." She nodded, short and quick, but her eyes flickered away, her shadow lengthening across the grass as the light dimmed, leaving the air warm with the last traces of divine presence.
Pandu looked up at her, still cradling Yudhishthira, his grin wide and unguarded. "Beautiful? He's perfect, Madri. Look at him! Strong already, you can feel it. A son, a real son." He rocked the baby gently, his tears drying on his cheeks, his voice thick with wonder. "I didn't think I'd ever see this. Not after everything."
Madri's smile tightened, her fingers digging into her sari as she nodded again. "I can see that, Pandu. He's yours, all right. Anyone could tell." She glanced at Kunti, her tone softening just a little, though her eyes stayed guarded. "You're lucky, Kunti. That mantra of yours… it's something else."
Kunti met her gaze, her hand still resting on Yudhishthira's head, her voice calm but carrying a weight Madri couldn't miss. "It's not luck, Madri. It's what Durvasa gave me. What I've held onto. And it's not just for me—it's for us. All of us." She straightened, brushing dirt from her knees, her crimson sari rustling as she stood, her eyes flicking to the sky where the gold was fading into gray.
Pandu climbed to his feet, Yudhishthira nestled in his arms, his grin softening into something fierce and hopeful. "She's right. This is ours, Madri. Our family. Our chance. And Kunti…" He turned to her, his gray eyes blazing with a fire she hadn't seen in years. "You've got to call again. Soon. This is just the start, don't you see? We could have more. A whole line of sons."
Kunti's breath caught, her hand pausing mid-air as she brushed her sari. She looked at him, then at Yudhishthira, the baby's radiant skin still glowing faintly in the morning light. "More?" she said, her voice quiet, almost testing the word. "It's only been a moment, Pandu. Let's breathe first. Let's take this in."
He shook his head, stepping closer, his voice urgent but warm, like a man who'd found a lifeline. "No, Kunti, listen. You said five times, didn't you? Five chances. This one's perfect, but think what else we could have. Warriors, kings, sons to carry us on. We can't stop now." He shifted Yudhishthira in his arms, the baby gurgling softly, and his grin widened. "You've given me this. Give me more."
Madri's hands stilled, her sari untwisting as she looked between them, her voice sharp with a sudden edge. "More already? He's barely here, Pandu, and you're planning the next one? What's the rush?" She crossed her arms, her green sari settling around her, her eyes narrowing as she glanced at Kunti. "She's just done something huge. Give her a day, at least."
Pandu turned to her, his grin fading slightly, but his eyes stayed bright. "A day? Madri, this isn't about rest. This is about everything we've lost, everything we could gain. You saw it—the light, the voice. It's real. We've got a son now, and we could have more. Don't you want that?"
Madri's lips parted, then closed, her fingers tightening on her arms. "Of course I want it," she said, her voice dropping, sharp but quieter now. "I'm not blind, Pandu. I saw what happened. I just… I didn't think it'd be so fast. That's all." She looked away, her shadow stretching longer as the sun climbed higher, the warmth lingering in the air.
Kunti stepped between them, her voice steady, cutting through the tension like a thread pulled taut. "We'll talk about it later. Both of you. Right now, we've got him." She nodded at Yudhishthira, her hand brushing Pandu's arm, gentle but firm. "Let's take him down to the stream, get him settled. The hill's too open, and I'm not sure I trust those clouds." She glanced at the sky, the gold-edged swirls fading into a deeper gray, the thunder rumbling softer now, a distant echo.
Pandu nodded, his grin returning as he adjusted Yudhishthira in his arms. "Right, down to the stream. Good idea. He's light as a feather, Kunti, but strong. You can feel it already." He started down the hill, his steps careful but eager, his voice drifting back. "Come on, Madri, keep up. You'll want to hold him too, I bet."
Madri hesitated, her green sari snagging once more on the thorn bush as she turned to follow. She tugged it free, her smile still tight, and murmured, "Maybe I will," her tone soft but laced with something unspoken. She glanced at Kunti, her eyes lingering for a moment, then hurried after Pandu, her shadow trailing behind her across the grass.
Kunti watched them go, her crimson sari settling around her as the wind died down, the clearing growing quiet except for the faint hum of the stream below. She pressed a hand to her chest, her breath steadying, her dark eyes tracing the path where the golden light had spilled. Yudhishthira's cry still echoed in her ears, sharp and pure, and she felt a warmth settle deep in her bones, a certainty that this was only the beginning. But beneath it, a shadow stirred—the memory of another cry, another child, golden and lost. She pushed it down, her lips pressing tight, and started down the hill after them, her steps firm, the air still warm with the last traces of divine presence.