History remembers the princes of Hastinapur as legends—sons of gods, born to destiny, sculpted by divine purpose.

  But before they were warriors, they were boys.

  And before they learned war, they learned something quieter:

  who stayed behind them when they bled.

  The Discussion BeginsIt started as a whisper—nothing formal. Just five brothers under the shade of a neem tree after a brutal afternoon of sparring.

  Yudhishthira sat cross-legged, cleaning his palms with river sand. Bhima sat with his feet in a bucket of cold water, his knuckles bruised from breaking two practice maces. Arjuna was oiling his bowstring, eyes fixed in concentration.

  Nakul and Sahadeva pyed a silent game of counting broken arrows in a pile nearby.

  The silence was heavy, full of leftover breath.

  Then Yudhishthira spoke.

  “What do you make of them?”

  Bhima gnced up.

  “Who?”

  “The shadows.”

  “You mean the aides?”

  “No,” Yudhishthira said softly. “I mean them.”

  He didn’t need to say names.

  They all knew: Avyakta, Chaitra, Bhal, Riksha.

  Arjuna frowned. “Why?”

  “Because they’re always there,” Yudhishthira said. “And they never ask anything in return.”

  Bhima chuckled. “Maybe they’re smart.”

  “They move like warriors,” Nakul added.

  Sahadeva didn’t look up. “They think like ones too.”

  That surprised them.

  “How would you know?” Arjuna asked.

  “Because I caught Bhal redirecting the sword drill pattern before I did. Because Riksha fixed a spearhead before the armory squire noticed. And because Avyakta—” he paused, “—Avyakta doesn’t watch us like a servant. He watches like someone who already knows the ending.”

  That made them quiet.

  Meanwhile, in the ShadowsWe didn’t know they were talking about us.

  We were too busy living at the edges.

  Chaitra had become something of a mirror to Nakul—practicing posture, footwork, even the way he tied his tunic. They had started sparring casually, neither admitting they were beginning to enjoy each other’s company.

  Bhal found in Bhima a strange form of unspoken brotherhood. Where Bhima swung harder, Bhal stood firmer. The two sparred like storms testing each other. They never spoke about it. They just nodded at the end of every match, drenched in sweat.

  Riksha admired Sahadeva’s quiet mind. They pyed logic games when no one was looking. Even in chores, they competed over efficiency like schors masked as warriors.

  And I—Avyakta—hovered near Yudhishthira and Arjuna, mostly silent. I didn’t try to match their strength. I simply made sure they never cked what they needed before asking.

  Bandages.Water.A second pair of eyes when a form felt off.And notes—kept in my head—about how they moved, how they changed, how they were slowly becoming the figures the epic would one day make immortal.

  But not yet.

  For now, they were just five boys trying to find who they were—while we, their shadows, learned who we were becoming.

  Drona NoticesDrona was not a man given to praise. He measured progress in silence, discipline in bruises.

  But he noticed.

  Without ever saying it aloud, he began shaping training differently.

  Arjuna was given more bow drills than others. Target after target. Angle after angle. He rose early, stayed te. Drona called it “potential.” The rest called it favoritism.

  Bhima was paired more often with heavier weapons—maces, weighted staffs, even rocks. Drona said it built control. Bhima never argued.

  Yudhishthira was taught stances of defense and breathwork. Swordsmanship that emphasized restraint over aggression. “You must never strike before your mind is clear,” Drona told him.

  Nakul and Sahadeva were trained in twin forms—mirror drills, horse combat, and dagger duels. Precision over power.

  But more importantly—Drona began using us too.

  We were no longer just water-bearers and target markers.

  We were sparring foils. Tactical tests. Eyes in the field.

  Duryodhana and Dushasana WhisperThey noticed the change before most.

  Duryodhana watched how Drona’s eyes lingered on Arjuna. How Bhima was allowed to train alone sometimes. How Sahadeva and Nakul were praised for footwork.

  It grated on him.

  One afternoon, as the others rested, he stood beside Dushasana at the edge of the training yard.

  “Do you see how he watches them?” Duryodhana said.

  “He’s training them.”

  “He’s preparing them.”

  “For what?”

  “For leadership. For war. For something we won’t be part of.”

  Dushasana frowned.

  “But we are royalty.”

  “That means nothing if skill becomes the new crown.”

  That was the moment something changed in Duryodhana’s tone—not jealousy.

  Strategy.

  He began taking notes. Watching who Drona favored. When he corrected. When he smiled.

  And he sent a message to the pace council—not from himself, but through a cousin.

  “The sons of Kunti are being groomed beyond equality. Watch the sage carefully.”

  Avyakta and ArjunaOne te evening, I found Arjuna alone near the southern edge of the gurukul.

  He was watching the wind pass through a row of tied cloth fgs—trying to track their movement.

  He heard me approach.

  “What do you want?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because wind doesn’t move the same way twice. And I wanted to see if you noticed.”

  He looked at me. Sharper this time.

  “You always speak like that. Like riddles.”

  “It’s not a riddle,” I said. “It’s just not what you expect from someone like me.”

  He didn’t respond for a while.

  Then:

  “You watch us too closely.”

  “Someone has to.”

  He held my gaze longer than usual.

  Then returned to the fgs.

  “You really think wind teaches anything?”

  “It teaches survival. Which direction you’ll get hit from. When to lean. When to wait.”

  He didn’t ugh.

  But he didn’t ask me to leave, either.

  Yudhishthira and the Quiet QuestionThat night, after food was served and beds rolled out on the floor of the longhouse, Yudhishthira sat beside me. No one else spoke.

  He simply asked:

  “Who taught you to see like that?”

  “Loss.”

  “Loss of what?”

  “Everything. Once.”

  He nodded.

  Then handed me a book of verses.

  “You might see things that others miss. But sometimes what’s written can help even more.”

  I opened it.

  Not because I believed in it.

  But because sometimes, kindness is a nguage too.