Gandhari paced the stone balcony of Hastinapura's palace, her indigo sari dragging across the tiles with a soft, scraping sound. The Ganga flowed below, its restless roar drifting up through the evening air, a steady hum beneath the clatter of her wooden sandals. Her blindfold clung damply to her face, sweat beading beneath it after hours of restless walking, and her hands pressed against her swollen belly, the ache of two long years weighing her down. Dhritarashtra sat on a cushioned bench nearby, his dark tunic creased from shifting restlessly, his staff tapping a slow, uneven beat against the stone floor. His blind eyes twitched beneath furrowed brows, his lips moving as he muttered to himself, the words sharp and bitter.
She stopped mid-step, her hands tightening on her stomach, her voice cutting through the quiet like a whip. "Two years, Dhritarashtra. Two years I've carried this child, and still nothing. Nothing! And now Pandu's got a son, has he? Yudhishthira, they're calling him. Born of justice, they say." She snorted, her breath sharp, and turned toward the river, her sari swaying as she gripped the balcony's edge.
Dhritarashtra's staff paused, mid-tap, his head tilting toward her voice. "That's what the trader said," he muttered, his tone low and sour. "Came in this morning, all out of breath, stinking of the road. Said Kunti did it. Called some god, and there he was, a boy glowing like the dawn. Pandu's son, while I'm stuck here waiting." His fingers tightened on the staff, his knuckles paling, and he shifted on the bench, the cushions creaking beneath him.
Gandhari's hands pressed harder against her belly, her voice rising, sharp with frustration. "Waiting? I'm the one waiting, husband. Two years of this, feeling it grow, feeling it kick, and where's my child? Kunti's outdone me, has she? Some forest trick, and she's got a son while I'm still waddling around like a fool." She turned, her sandals clicking as she paced again, her blindfold shifting slightly, revealing a flush of anger on her cheeks.
He leaned forward, his staff tapping once, hard, against the tiles. "You're not a fool, Gandhari. It's me who looks the fool. Pandu's off in the wild, cursed and useless, and still he gets a son before I do. A king with no heir, that's what they'll call me. They're probably laughing already, down in the court." His voice trembled, bitterness seeping through, and he rubbed a hand across his face, his blind eyes twitching faster.
She stopped again, her hands dropping to her sides, her fingers curling into fists. "Laughing? Let them laugh. I'll give you a son, Dhritarashtra. I'll give you something better than Pandu's little forest brat. But this waiting—it's killing me. I can't stand it anymore." Her voice cracked, and she slammed her fists against her stomach, a sudden, furious blow that echoed off the stone walls. A jolt ran through her, sharp and cold, and a gray, lifeless mass slipped from her, thudding onto the tiles with a wet, heavy sound.
Gandhari gasped, her knees buckling, and she collapsed beside it, her indigo sari pooling around her as her cry rang out, raw and piercing. "No! No, it can't be!" Her hands scrabbled at the tiles, reaching for the mass, her blindfold slipping further as tears soaked through it, her breath coming in ragged sobs.
Dhritarashtra lurched to his feet, his staff clattering to the floor as he stumbled forward, his voice booming with panic. "Gandhari! What's happened? What's that sound? Someone, help! Get someone here, now!" He waved a hand blindly, his dark tunic flapping as he dropped to his knees beside her, his fingers brushing the cold, gray lump before jerking back. "What is it? Tell me, Gandhari, what's happened?"
She clutched at his arm, her nails digging in, her voice breaking as she rocked back and forth. "It's gone. It's dead. Two years, and this is what I get—a dead thing. I've failed you, I've failed us." Her sobs shook her, her sari sticking to her legs, and the Ganga's roar seemed to grow louder, a restless echo to her grief.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs, and Vyasa swept onto the balcony, his white robes billowing like a storm cloud, his staff clicking sharply against the stone. His voice came out calm, steady as a riverbed, cutting through the chaos. "Enough of that, both of you. Let me see." He knelt beside the mass, his thin fingers tracing its edges, his gray hair glinting in the torchlight as he murmured a mantra under his breath, the words soft and rhythmic.
Dhritarashtra turned toward the sound, his hands groping the air, his voice rough with desperation. "Vyasa? Is that you? What's she done? Is it over? Tell me something, don't just sit there!"
Gandhari's sobs quieted, her hands loosening on his arm as she lifted her head, her voice trembling but sharp. "It's dead, Vyasa. I felt it stop, and then… this. Can you do anything? Anything at all?" She wiped at her blindfold, her fingers shaking, and leaned closer, her breath hitching as she waited.
Vyasa's staff tapped once, a firm sound, and he spoke, his tone unshaken. "It's not dead, Gandhari. Not yet. There's life here, tangled and trapped. I can free it." He reached into his robes, pulling out a small clay pot, and scooped ghee from a jar a servant had rushed in behind him. His hands moved quick and sure, splitting the mass into 101 pieces, each one gray and cold, and he placed them carefully into ghee-filled jars the servants set around him, his murmurs growing louder, a chant that hummed in the air.
Dhritarashtra's breath steadied, his hands dropping to his lap as he sat back on his heels. "Free it? You mean there's a child in there? More than one? Vyasa, what are you saying?" His voice rose, a mix of hope and disbelief, and he tilted his head, listening hard as the jars clinked into place.
Gandhari's hands pressed against the tiles, her voice soft now, almost a whisper. "Children? You can give me children, Vyasa? After this?" She straightened, her sari rustling, and reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of a jar, her blindfold damp but steady on her face again.
Vyasa nodded, though she couldn't see it, his voice calm and certain. "One hundred and one, Gandhari. Sons and a daughter, if you'll wait a little longer. The ghee will nurture them, my words will shape them. You've not failed—your patience will bear fruit." He stood, his white robes settling around him, and tapped his staff again, the sound ringing out as he stepped back.
Days blurred past, the palace thick with a strange, uneasy quiet. Jackals howled outside the walls each night, their cries sharp and mournful, and the sky bruised purple, heavy with clouds that refused to break. Torches flickered wildly in their brackets, casting jagged shadows across the balcony, and a chill wind rattled the wooden shutters, slipping through the cracks with a low, keening sound. Gandhari sat by the jars, her indigo sari draped over her knees, her hands resting on the nearest one, her breath shallow as she waited. Dhritarashtra paced behind her, his staff tapping a restless rhythm, his dark tunic creased and dusty from sleepless nights.
On the fifth evening, the first jar cracked, a sharp, splintering sound that made Gandhari flinch. A wail burst out, harsh and piercing, and Duryodhana emerged, his tiny fists clenched, his skin pale but fierce, his cry cutting through the air like a blade. The torches flared, then dimmed, their flames dancing wildly, and the wind slammed the shutters hard, a gust that sent dust swirling across the tiles. The sky darkened further, purple deepening to black, and a jackal's howl rose above the rest, long and chilling, as if the night itself shuddered.
Gandhari reached for him, her hands trembling as she lifted him from the jar, her voice breaking with triumph. "My son. My son!" She cradled him close, her blindfold slipping slightly, her tears soaking into his skin as she rocked him, her sari bunching around her arms.
Dhritarashtra dropped his staff, stumbling forward, his hands outstretched as he laughed, a raw, ragged sound. "A son! Gandhari, you've done it! Let me feel him, let me hold him!" He knelt beside her, his fingers brushing Duryodhana's tiny, clenched fists, his grin wide and fierce. "Strong, isn't he? I can tell already. Duryodhana, that's his name. Hard to conquer. My son."
Vidura rushed in, his plain tunic dusty from a day in the lower courts, his breath short as he stopped at the balcony's edge. His dark eyes widened, taking in the jars, the flickering torches, the child in Gandhari's arms. "Wait," he said, his voice sharp with warning, cutting through Dhritarashtra's laughter. "Listen to that—the jackals, the wind. This isn't right. The omens, Dhritarashtra. They're dark. This birth… it's cursed, I can feel it."
Dhritarashtra's grin faded, his hands stilling on Duryodhana as he turned toward Vidura's voice. "Cursed? What's that supposed to mean, Vidura? He's here, he's alive, he's mine. You're telling me that's a curse?" His tone hardened, his blind eyes narrowing, and he shifted closer to Gandhari, protective and defiant.
Vidura stepped forward, his hands clasped behind him, his voice steady but urgent. "I'm telling you to look at the signs. The sky's black, the torches won't hold, the jackals won't stop. Something's wrong, brother. You need to hear this, not ignore it."
Gandhari's arms tightened around Duryodhana, her voice low and fierce, cutting Vidura off. "Enough, Vidura. He's my son, my first, and he's perfect. I've waited too long for you to spoil this." She turned her head toward Vyasa, her tone softening, grateful. "Thank you, Vyasa. For him, for all of them. I'll wait as long as it takes."
Vyasa stood near the jars, his white robes still, his staff silent now as he spoke, calm and measured. "He's yours, Gandhari. And the others will come. Patience, as I said. But Vidura's not wrong—the omens speak. What they mean, time will show." He turned, his robes rustling, and stepped toward the stairs, his shadow long in the flickering light.
Dhritarashtra gripped Gandhari's hand, his pride drowning the flicker of fear in his chest, his voice firm as he sat beside her. "Time can show what it likes. He's here, and he's ours. Duryodhana. That's all that matters." He squeezed her hand, his grin returning, softer now, as Duryodhana's wail quieted to a low, steady cry, his tiny fists unclenching at last.
The Ganga roared below, restless and loud, its sound mingling with the jackals' howls as the wind rattled the shutters again, the torches casting wild shadows across the balcony. Gandhari leaned against Dhritarashtra, her indigo sari stained with ghee, her triumph shadowed by the night's unease, but her arms steady around her son.