Silk curtains fluttered in a private chamber off the throne room, their soft rustle breaking the stillness of noon. Sunlight streamed through a high window, pooling on a low table set with a clay teapot and a bowl of fruit—oranges and figs stacked neatly beside a pair of cups. The air hung heavy, thick with unsaid words, and the faint clink of trays drifted from the edges where servants lingered, their sandals whispering against the stone floor. Gandhari sat on a cushioned stool, her indigo sari crisp and bright, its folds spilling over the seat. Her hands moved steady and sure as she poured tea from the pot, the steam curling upward in thin wisps. Her blindfold sat tight across her eyes, its edges sharp against her fair skin, and she tilted her head slightly, her voice warm but carrying a faint edge as she held out a cup.
"Your boys settle in well, Kunti. Such vigor—I hear it all over the palace." She set the pot down, her fingers brushing the sari's hem, and her lips curved into a small, practiced smile.
Kunti stood by the table, her crimson sari patched but tied neatly, its faded hem brushing her ankles. She didn't reach for the cup, her arms stiff at her sides, and her dark hair hung loose, framing her sharp face. Her voice came out cool and sharp, slicing through the chamber's quiet. "Vigor earned, Gandhari. Not given. We've had no cushions out there." She shifted her weight, her fingers curling around the table's edge, her knuckles whitening as she held Gandhari's unseen gaze.
Gandhari's smile tightened, her hands folding in her lap as she adjusted her sari, her fingers lingering on the blindfold for a moment. Her voice stayed warm, but the edge sharpened, a low hum beneath her words. "Earned, yes. I hear that too. Bhima's quite the talk—lifting my Duryodhana like a toy, they say. Boys will play, won't they?" She tilted her head, the tea steaming untouched between them, and her tone hovered between jest and something harder.
Kunti's grip tightened, the wood creaking faintly under her fingers, and her voice dropped, quiet but firm. "Play? Leaders don't dangle in sand, Gandhari. That's no game." She stepped closer, her sari swaying, and her dark eyes narrowed, her words hanging sharp in the air.
Gandhari's hands stilled, her smile fading as she leaned back slightly, her voice low and steady, the warmth thinning. "Duryodhana's a leader, Kunti. My hundred thrive under him—strong, bold, a force. One tumble doesn't change that." She smoothed her sari again, her fingers slow and deliberate, and the blindfold twitched as her brow furrowed beneath it.
Kunti's lips pressed thin, her voice cool and clipped - yet pointed as she leaned forward, her hands firm on the table. "A hundred's a crowd, not a force. My five stood alone—fought for every breath. That's strength you don't count in numbers." She straightened, her sari settling, and her gaze bore into Gandhari, unwavering and cold.
The servants shifted at the edges, their trays clinking softly as they glanced at each other, their sandals scuffing the floor. Gandhari tilted her head again, her voice warm but clipped, a faint hum rising as she replied. "Alone's a hard lesson, I'll grant you. But my boys hold this palace—Duryodhana leads, Duhshasana follows, the rest grow wild and free. They're Kuru's heart." She reached for the teapot, her hand pausing as she added, "Your five bring vigor, yes. But roots matter here."
Kunti's fingers slid off the table, her arms crossing as her voice sharpened, steady and low. "Roots? We've got Pandu's roots—deeper than your hundred's noise. My boys don't need a palace to prove it." She stepped back, her sari brushing the floor, and her dark hair swayed as she turned her head slightly, her defiance clear.
Gandhari poured a second cup, the tea splashing faintly, and her voice stayed even, the edge cutting deeper. "Pandu's roots, true. But he left, Kunti. Dhritarashtra holds the throne—my sons carry it forward. A hundred voices drown five, vigor or not." She set the pot down, her fingers brushing the blindfold again, and her smile returned, tight and thin.
Kunti's eyes flashed, her voice quiet but icy as she stepped forward again, her hands dropping to her sides. "Drown? My five breathe louder than your crowd. Bhima lifted your leader—Arjuna's aim cuts through noise. Numbers don't win that." She tilted her chin, her sari catching the light, and the chamber crackled with the weight of her words.
Gandhari's hands clasped in her lap, her voice low and warm, but the edge turned cold, a hum beneath her calm. "Lifted, yes. I heard. Duryodhana's young—hot-headed. He'll rise again, stronger. My hundred learn fast." She leaned forward, her sari rustling, and her blindfold stayed still, her unseen gaze piercing.
Kunti's jaw tightened, her voice cool and steady as she replied, her fingers curling slightly. "Rise? He fell fast enough. My boys don't stumble—they stand. That's what the forest taught them." She shifted her weight, her dark eyes locked on Gandhari, her defiance a quiet storm.
The tea cooled untouched, the steam fading as a servant edged closer, his tray trembling. Gandhari's fingers brushed her sari again, her voice warm but clipped, the civility thinning. "Stand, do they? Good. Hastinapura's big—plenty of room. My hundred fill it, Kunti—Duryodhana's their fire. Yours will need more than vigor here." She tilted her head, her smile gone, and the air grew heavier, the divide sharpening.
Kunti's hands clenched, her voice low and sharp as she stepped back, her sari swaying. "More? We've got more—grit, heart, each other. Your fire flickered in that yard, Gandhari. Mine burns steady." She turned slightly, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder, and her words hung like frost in the chamber.
Gandhari's hands stilled, her voice steady but edged, the warmth a mask now. "Flickered? A spark grows, Kunti. My Duryodhana leads a blaze—my hundred fuel it. Your five are bright, I'll give you that. But bright fades against a flood." She leaned back, her sari settling, and her blindfold twitched as her lips pressed tight.
Kunti's gaze hardened, her voice quiet and firm as she faced Gandhari fully, her arms crossing again. "Flood? Water breaks on rock. My five are rock—your blaze won't touch them. We'll see who fades." She stepped back, her sari brushing the floor, and her knuckles whitened as she held her ground.
A servant stumbled, his tray crashing to the stone with a sharp clatter, oranges rolling across the floor. The sound punctuated the standoff, and the other servants froze, their trays clinking as they stared. Gandhari's head turned toward the noise, her voice low and clipped as she waved a hand. "Leave it. We're done here." She smoothed her sari, her fingers steady, and her blindfold stayed tight, her pride masking the unease beneath.
Kunti nodded stiffly, her voice cool and final as she turned to the door, her sari swaying. "Done, yes. For now." She stepped past the fallen tray, her dark hair catching the light, and her defiance lingered, a silent specter in the chamber.
Gandhari sat still, her hands folding in her lap, her voice soft but edged as she called after Kunti, her warmth gone. "For now, Kunti. My boys grow—yours better keep up." She tilted her head, the tea untouched, and the air thickened with their mutual distrust.
Kunti paused at the door, her hand on the frame, her voice quiet and sharp as she glanced back. "Keep up? We're ahead, Gandhari. Sand doesn't forget." She stepped out, her sari vanishing around the corner, and the chamber fell silent, the divide between their sons mirrored in their icy parting.
The servants bent to gather the oranges, their trays clinking softly, and the silk curtains fluttered again, the noon light fading on the table. Gandhari's fingers brushed her blindfold once more, her pride a shield, while Kunti's footsteps echoed down the hall, her fear buried beneath her resolve. The tension festered, unresolved, their sons' clash a silent specter between them.