The Road To Penance

The road to penance

The forest thinned as Arjuna climbed, replaced by stone, frost, and sky. Trees gave way to rock, and then, rock gave way to snow. The air turned sharper, the wind colder, biting through his clothes and into his bones like old guilt.

He did not look back often. When he did, he saw only mist swallowing the trail behind him- thick and white and uncaring, as though the world itself had closed the door. Go on, it seemed to say. There is nothing for you behind.

By the third day, the silence was louder than any war cry. It crept into his ears, pressed against his ribs, filled his lungs until each breath became a question. He welcomed it. Silence did not ask why he hadn't spoken when the dice fell.

Silence did not ask why he had not torn the sabha down with his bare hands. Silence did not whisper: You are the archer who never missed, yet you missed the moment that mattered most.

He walked with those thoughts like ghosts at his side. And with the cold, always the cold. It was not just in the wind; it was in his blood, in the marrow of his bones, in the soft parts behind his eyes. It reminded him of the night Draupadi's laughter had gone quiet, and he'd sat outside their hut with his bow in his lap and nothing to shoot at but memory.

On the fifth night, he dreamed. No, not of war or fire or fate. Just Krishna: wild-eyed, grinning, sprinting barefoot through Satyaki's garden with a twelve-year-old Abhimanyu at his heels. That part was strange. He'd left his son when he was five. But in dreams, the boy had grown.

"Too slow, Abhi!" Krishna laughed, his beautiful curly hair flying, mango juice dripping down his chin.

"Mama! I had no shoes!" Abhimanyu shouted, brandishing a stick like a sword. "And you cheated!"

"All's fair in mangoes and mayhem, sweetheart." Arjuna laughed in his sleep. A rare, rusted sound. He actually even woke with a smile still caught in his throat. Thought it didn't last.

Because he remembered how Krishna had looked at him after the sabha. Not with anger. Not even with pity.

Just... sorrow, with a hole of disappointment. A quiet, soul-deep sorrow: as though he had failed, not Arjuna. As though he had given Arjuna the bow and watched him lay it down.

Then came the mountains. The real ones.

The ones where the wind was not the kind that whispered. It howled: an ancient, toothless cry that had clawed at these Himalayan cliffs long before kingdoms rose or dharma was spoken of in courtly verse. Arjuna bent his head against it, his breath ragged and clouding the thin air. The trail underfoot had long disappeared, buried beneath stubborn snow. Only the mountain remained: vast, unspeaking, indifferent.

He hadn't eaten in days. Not since he had crossed the last outpost of men and fire. Hunger had long since left behind the dull ache of need; now it gnawed at his spine, made his vision stutter. Yet he pressed on. Not as a warrior, just as a man trying to find stillness somewhere inside a body that would not stop trembling.

He did not speak. For there was no one to speak too, but also because words felt too loud in this place, too mortal. The silence was not absence- it was a presence, thick and echoing, forcing him to listen.

And so, it found him.

Shrutakarma, four years old, chasing him across a courtyard with a wooden bow and painted arrows, cheeks flushed with laughter, mimicking his father's stance with fearless delight. His brothers watching, chuckling at the youngest's theatrics.

Krishna's voice by firelight, warm with mischief: "You fight better when you're angry, Partha. But you lead better when you're calm."

Kunti's hand on his cheek before the exile, soft and worn. "You're still here," she had said. "You must let yourself be."

The memories struck without rhythm. Like stray arrows from nowhere.

And then the one that never missed. The sabha. The dice. Draupadi's cry. Bhima's fury. Yudhishthira's silence. And he-Arjuna. Partha. The archer whose aim was legend; had stood still.

Helpless... no, not helpless. Worse. He had been useless. All that strength, all that skill- and when it mattered, he had been a silent, watching coward clothed in gold and guilt.

No mountain wind could strip that memory away.

He stumbled. His knees struck the snow hard, sinking deep into the frozen crust. This time, he did not rise quickly; as the cold no longer bit, it seeped. Quietly. Thoroughly. A numbness that dulled not just skin, but thought. His fingers, that could easily lift the mighty Gandiva, had gone pale and unfeeling, curled stiffly at his sides.

He was not dressed for such heights. His garments, worn and travel-stained, were suited to forest shadows and monsoon rains- not to scale gods' shoulders. Frost clung to his long lashes like silver dust. The world tilted, weightless and white. Snow swallowed the sky and the earth alike. The only sound was his pulse; fluttering, fading, like the echo of a battle drum too far to reach.

He knelt there, a figure carved in stillness....

... and somewhere between sleep and death, he thought he saw fire.

A flicker of orange through the white; a distant warmth nestled between trees that shouldn't have been there. A grove where none had stood moments ago. Was it a memory? A trick of exhaustion? Or something older, something watching?

But he didn't crawl toward it. Not yet. Instead, something inside him stirred. A single thought: Get up.

Not for glory. Not for war. Not even for redemption. Just, get up.

This body may be broken by cold, but it was the same body trained to endure. To obey. To fight through pain until pain itself became silence.

He had trained in forests that tore at his skin, stood unmoving under waterfalls until the weight of it drove men to collapse. He had aimed arrows through lightning storms, focused past hunger, heat, and humiliation. When others had faltered, he had refined. Sharpened. Endured. So he walked.

Not because he was strongest. Not even because he was destined. But because he wanted to be better.

It was because he was Arjuna, and Arjuna would never stop walking.

So he breathed. Once. Twice. Ragged, shallow gasps. Then deeper. He forced the air into his chest like drawing a bow. Forced his limbs to move- shaking, clumsy, but moving.

The cold no longer defeated him; it forged him. The mind would adjust, the skin thickened, and his muscles would remember how to work even when they screamed.

He rose, not with grandeur but with grit: teeth clenched, eyes narrowed. He bent his will to the mountain.

One step. Then another.

He kept thinking: Somewhere- his fire awaited, somewhere- the gods watched.

Inside him, a flame sparked- a little smaller than a torch, a little stronger than death.

He crawled. Climbed. Walked.

At first, every movement was agony. The wind mocked him, tore at his garments, hissed in his ears like it meant to wear him down to nothing. His knees scraped over stone, fingers raw from catching himself against jagged ice.

Then eventually, His walk grew steadier. His spine straightened. His steps, no longer stumbles, became rhythm. The burn in his muscles dulled to a hum. Hunger faded into stillness. Cold into clarity. Until walking felt like breathing rather than a chore.

And only then, only when the mountain no longer seemed like a punishment but a presence, did he see it. The beauty.

Not in the grandeur alone- though the peaks stretched like ivory spires, and the clouds moved like silk across their crest- but in the silence between it all. In the hush after every step. In the way the stars unveiled themselves like old friends once the sun dipped behind the ridges. In how the earth, unmoved by empires or epics, simply was.

There was no battle here. No sabha. No war drums. Only a sky so vast it made his grief feel small. There was snow, soft enough to forgive. He walked in that silence for days, alone but no longer lost.

Then, at the twilight of the 23rd day, he found the boy.

Tags

oneshot arjuna hindu mythology draupadi krishna mahabharat arjun pandavas abhimanyu

✨INTRODUCTION✨

Namaste!! aap ka swagat hai, devi aur sajjano🙏

I've come to the stark realization that I've never introduced by myself properly. I still don't know how to use tumblr properly

I'm Yami. You can call me Yumjum, Yams, even Yami or whatever you want. I'm a student, and have no time, but still enough time to write occasionally.

I kinda enjoy writing about Mahabharata. It helps me cope with life. Please do note that I am no expert in Mahabharat, religious texts, or writing in general. So most, no all, of my stories are creative renditions and stories.

That being said, here are some of my works:

WATTPAD PROFILE:-

Prank gone wrong

Arjuna: Through the Lenses of Dwarka

The Archer Remade

Mahabharat crack fic Series

Shakuni Mama aur Shraapit Seedhiyan

Bhima and his mighty arms

Arjuna: 3, Yadavas: 0

Holi hai bhai holi hai

The Coconut Saga

Udderance

One shots

Merchants of Dwarka

Echo's of a life lived

Swept Away

Just a little longer

The sword

POEMS

FIRE AND RAIN

Bed of Arrows

The One Who Holds My Reins

Tags

intro post pinned intro mahabharat

12 notes View Post

yumjum414

2 months ago

Echos of a life lived- More thoughts

The mountain had taken the last thing he had left-his pride in himself.

Yudhishthira will not turn back for me.

The thought should have angered him. It did not.

He is still walking. Still moving forward.

Perhaps that was how it was meant to be. Yudhishthira had always been ahead of him, carrying burdens none of them could fathom. He would make it to the gates of heaven. He deserved to.

Arjuna had never been meant to reach the end, and maybe that was alright.

Because for all his regrets, for all his failures, he had also lived.

He had lived in the rush of battle, in the whisper of bowstrings, in the heat of the chase. He had lived in stolen moments, in Draupadi’s gaze, in Krishna’s laughter, in the arms of his children. He had lived in love and rage, in grief and triumph.

And now, he was falling.

But he was not afraid.

The sky blurred into the earth, the wind howled in his ears, and Arjuna- Pandava, warrior, brother, father- closed his eyes.

And let go.

Tags

arjuna hindu mythology krishna mahabharat arjun pandavas

4 notes View Post

yumjum414

2 months ago

Shakuni Mama aur Shraapit Seedhiyan- Mahabharat crack fic Series Part I

The halls of Hastinapura had seen countless battles, both in the court and on the training grounds. They had witnessed the thunderous steps of warriors, the hushed whispers of conspiracies, and the resounding laughter of carefree princes. But on this particular afternoon, the halls bore witness to something truly unforgettable-something that would go unspoken in formal gatherings but live on in the hearts (and suppressed laughter) of the Kuru princes for years to come.

It all started, as many disasters did, with Bhima.

The young Pandava, already a force of nature at his age, had just been dismissed from his lessons along with his brothers and cousins. The elders-Bhishma, Guru Drona, and Shakuni-were leading the way down the long, grand staircase that connected the higher halls to the central court. It was a staircase worthy of its royal residents: steep, wide, and polished to a near-miraculous shine by the tireless palace attendants.

And, as it turned out, far too polished.

Bhima, unwilling to walk like a normal human being, decided to sprint up the last few steps. Why? No one knew. Perhaps he was racing an imaginary opponent. Perhaps he had just remembered that lunch was being served soon. Perhaps he was simply Bhima.

Regardless of his reasons, the results were catastrophic.

The moment Bhima reached the top, his sandal betrayed him. It slipped-a treacherous, traitorous little movement that sent his foot skidding out from under him. The great warrior-to-be flailed, arms windmilling, desperately grasping for anything to steady himself.

Fate, ever the mischievous force, provided him with something.

Shakuni’s cloak.

For a brief, glorious second, Shakuni was not a man.

He was a spectacle.

One moment, he had been walking with his usual air of practiced elegance, his fine robes flowing behind him as he engaged Bhishma in conversation. The next moment-he was airborne.

His feet lifted clean off the ground, his arms flailed, and his mouth opened-but no words came out, only a stunned, undignified gasp. His turban, that ever-present symbol of his regal composure, tilted precariously to one side.

And then, gravity remembered him.

Shakuni descended.

Not gracefully. Not heroically. Not with the composed dignity of a statesman. No, he rolled.

His long cloak, the very thing that had betrayed him, tangled around his legs, turning what might have been a simple fall into a grand, tragic performance. His staff, once held with the poise of a master strategist, clattered ahead of him, announcing his descent like a herald announcing a king’s arrival-except this king was tumbling helplessly down a flight of stairs.

First, he lurched forward. Then, he twisted midair. Then-thump, thump, thump-down he went, step by step, his arms flapping wildly in a last, desperate attempt to regain control of his fate.

The grand staircase of Hastinapura had never seen such an event before.

And it would never, ever see one like it again.

At the top of the stairs, the young Kuru princes froze.

This was a moment of great crisis.

Not because Shakuni might be injured-no, that was secondary. The real crisis was not laughing.

Duryodhana and Arjuna made the fatal mistake of looking at each other. Their expressions, which had started as carefully composed masks of concern, cracked immediately.

Nakula and Sahadeva stood as still as statues, the effort of holding back their laughter written all over their faces. Sahadeva was biting his tongue. Nakula’s shoulders were trembling.

And Yudhishthira-oh, poor Yudhishthira-looked as though he was suffering the torments of the gods themselves. His hands were clenched into fists, pressed against his mouth as he struggled desperately to maintain some semblance of dignity. His eyes were wide, pleading with the heavens for strength.

And Bhima?

Bhima, the root cause of this disaster, was trying to be the responsible one. He stepped forward, schooling his expression into what he probably thought was a look of deep concern.

“Shakuni Mama,” he said, in a voice that was just a little too strained, “are you well?”

It was a valiant attempt.

Unfortunately, his voice cracked halfway through.

The effort to suppress their laughter reached its breaking point. Duryodhana’s lips twitched. Arjuna coughed violently. Nakula turned away, pretending to examine a very interesting section of the wall.

The entire hall was silent.

The ministers, the soldiers, the attendants-everyone was holding their breath.

Bhishma, ever the composed patriarch, stroked his beard and nodded thoughtfully, as though he had just witnessed a fascinating philosophical lesson unfold before him. Guru Drona, to his credit, maintained his usual impassive expression, though his fingers twitched ever so slightly.

And then-Shakuni rose.

The fallen prince of Gandhara stood, slowly and shakily.

With the precision of a man who refused to acknowledge what had just happened, he adjusted his turban, straightened his robes, and calmly dusted off his shoulders.

Then, in a voice so controlled it could have been carved from stone, he declared:

“I am perfectly fine, mere bachche”

He paused.

Then, with a pointed look at the offending staircase, he added, “The stairs, however, are treacherous.”

Silence.

And then, Bhishma, in his infinite wisdom, gave a sage nod.

“Indeed,” he said gravely. “The stairs are quite polished.”

The princes lost their battle.

Yudhishthira turned away, his entire body shaking. Duryodhana let out a strangled noise that could have been a cough-or a suppressed howl of laughter. Nakula buried his face in his sleeve. Sahadeva looked like he had physically left his body to avoid the disgrace.

And Bhima?

Bhima covered his mouth, his shoulders heaving.

Shakuni, either unwilling or unable to acknowledge the suffering of his audience, simply gathered what was left of his pride and walked away.

He did not stalk off in anger. He did not rage or scowl. He merely left, as if nothing had happened, as if his descent down the grand staircase of Hastinapura had been a deliberate choice-an elegant, calculated maneuver.

But from that day on, the young Kuru princes knew.

And every time Shakuni passed by, if Bhima happened to look at him for just a little too long-

Bhima would cough.

And immediately pretend to be deeply, deeply interested in something else.

Tags

arjuna hindu mythology mahabharata mahabharat duryodhana arjun nakula pandavas bheema yudhishthir mahabharat crack fic series sahadev mahabharat memes shakuni kuru star plus mahabharat

53 notes View Post

yumjum414

2 months ago

casually binge reading your Mahabharat crack series, making me giggle and kick my feet :333

hehe thanks sweetheart

7 notes View Post

yumjum414

2 months ago

Merchants of Dwarka

As the sun cast long golden streaks over the docks, Arjuna’s gaze fell upon a spice merchant deep in negotiation. The man was draped in a simple yet fine cotton shawl, his fingers adorned with rings-not ostentatious, but the kind that spoke of wealth gained through years of trade. Before him stood a customer, a lean man with keen eyes, gesturing toward a sack of cinnamon sticks.

“This is not quality,” the buyer said, shaking his head. “These are thin and brittle. I can get better ones from the southern traders for half your price.”

The merchant sighed, rubbing his forehead as if exhausted. “Ah, my friend, you wound me. Do you take me for a liar?” He reached into the sack, pulled out a cinnamon stick, and snapped it in half. A rich, warm aroma filled the air. “Do you smell that? The deep scent, the color-this is the finest from Malaya.”

The buyer frowned, clearly reluctant to concede. “Even if that is so, your price is too high.”

The merchant smiled knowingly. “And yet, here you are, still bargaining.”

Arjuna watched, intrigued. There was a battle happening here-one of words, patience, and careful maneuvering. The merchant was neither aggressive nor desperate. He simply stood firm, confident in the value of his goods.

Arjuna stepped closer, deciding to test the man himself. “You seem very sure of your price,” he said.

The merchant turned, taking in Arjuna’s attire-simple yet unmistakably fine. He studied his face a moment longer before smiling. “Ah, a new customer! And one with the curiosity of a scholar. Tell me, prince, what do you seek?”

Arjuna raised a brow but said nothing about being recognized. “Tell me instead-how do you always know when a buyer will return?”

The merchant’s eyes twinkled. “Because people are predictable. A man who truly thinks something is overpriced will walk away. But a man who stays to argue?” He chuckled. “He wants it. He just doesn’t want to admit it.”

Arjuna smirked. “So, you play a game of patience.”

“Patience, my lord,” the merchant said, “and knowledge. A warrior studies his enemy, does he not? I study my buyers. See that man over there?” He nodded toward a richly dressed trader examining silk. “He will buy, but not until I let him believe he has won a bargain. And that woman?” He gestured toward a lady running her fingers over a set of ivory bangles. “She values rarity. I will not offer her a discount-but I will tell her they are the last of their kind.”

Arjuna exhaled, impressed. “You know people well.”

“A merchant must.” The man clasped his hands together. “And so must a prince.”

Arjuna glanced at Krishna, who, as expected, was smiling as if he had planned this encounter all along.

“Tell me, prince,” the merchant continued, his tone now playful. “If you were to buy from me, how would you bargain?”

Arjuna considered the question. A test.

He picked up a handful of black peppercorns from a nearby basket, rolling them between his fingers. “These-how much for a measure?”

The merchant named his price without hesitation.

Arjuna gave a thoughtful hum. “I hear the traders from the east have brought fresher stock. Their pepper is larger, stronger in taste.”

The merchant did not waver. “Then you should buy from them.”

“But your stall is closer,” Arjuna countered, watching the man carefully. “And I do not wish to walk that far. Perhaps if your price were more reasonable…”

The merchant chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, you bargain well. But if I lower my price, what will that say of my goods? That they are worth less? No, prince. I will not cheapen them.”

Arjuna studied him for a moment before nodding in approval. “Then you are a merchant of worth.”

The man grinned. “And you, a buyer of wisdom.” He took a small handful of peppercorns and pressed them into Arjuna’s palm. “A gift. For the lesson you let me teach.”

Arjuna inclined his head in gratitude, then turned to Krishna, who had been quietly observing. “Did I pass your test?”

Krishna only laughed. “Parth, the lessons of life do not come with scores. Only experience.”

Arjuna shook his head, suppressing a smile. He had learned something valuable today-words and patience could win battles just as surely as steel. And perhaps, if he ever found himself in another kind of war, the lessons of Dwarka’s merchants would serve him well.

Tags

arjuna hindu mythology mahabharata krishna mahabharat arjun mahabharat headcanon dwarka kanha

18 notes View Post

yumjum414

1 month ago

The One Who Holds My Reins

Oh Krishna, my dearest Madhav, I have seen my god in you- Your blue-hued gaze holding the vastness of the universe, The stars themselves moving at your silent command. Oh Keshava, my dearest Madhav, You weave fate with the flick of your wrist, Yet hold my reins with hands steady, patient, kind. You gather the shards of my broken mind, And in your embrace, I am whole again. I have heard your laughter, bright as rivers in spring, I have seen your stillness, deep as oceans before the storm. And now, I breathe your name- A prayer not spoken, but felt in the marrow of my soul. Hai Parameswara, Hai prabhu, You have lifted the veil from my eyes, Shown me dharma, my path, my truth. This war is no longer about me, my pride, my sorrow- It is the weight of the world, the will of time itself. Oh Janardana, father of the universe, In one breath, I bow down to you, Yet such is your simplicity, that in another breath- I can crumble into my sakha’s arms Oh Govinda, for your cause- I would shatter a thousand bows, a thousand destinies. And when the dust of war settles, When the echoes of battle fade into silence, It is not victory or defeat I will remember- But the chariot’s wheels turning beneath your steady hands, And the voice that called me back to myself.