kya hai jindagi

Hi! I write sometimes, most times I just yap. Good day!

[yumjum414]

✨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

Subhadra-harana

POEMS

FIRE AND RAIN

Bed of Arrows

The One Who Holds My Reins

Yashoda's ode

[yumjum414]

I told this guy that the Rs370 Biyani guy lost his job, and this guy was like "Wot? pichhe ki gali mein 200 ka milta hai. But of course, the economy isn't too good these days na yaar, toh hoga 370. Mutton ka tha kya?"

Kya bolun main? but before I could, this stranger suddenly went into full preach mode about how unfair all the hate towards the Biryani guy is. For context, my friend and I were sitting two tables away. The place was basically empty, so I guess he'd overheard us.

Then this man literally comes over, sits down across from my friend, and starts ranting, "Arey, aajkal hum mardo ka time bahut jhand hai. Kisi ko chhu bhi nahi karsakte. Yeh feminist wale toh hamara sab lekar chalegi. yeh feminist yeh-woh-"

Meanwhile, my friend has absolutely no idea who the Biryani guy even is.

[yumjum414]

I should have told her I love her.

Why was that not the last thing he told her?

At first, Abhimanyu did not understand that he was dead. He saw his body before he felt the absence of it.

It lay broken upon the blood-soaked earth of Kurukshetra, still and mangled beneath the dust of war. His body did not hold his soul, so, he felt no pain.

No weight in his chest. No burning in his limbs. No blood choking his breath. No arrows tearing through skin. No warriors closing in from all sides. No sound of chariot wheels, no conches, no cruel laughter, no shouted commands.

There was only him and silence. Only the strange, weightless feeling of being lifted from everything that had once made him human.

For a moment, Abhimanyu felt almost free.

He had done his best. His very best.

He had entered the Chakravyuha knowing only half its secret, and still he had gone. He had fought as a Maharathi. He had fought as the son of Arjuna, as the nephew of Krishna, as the grandson of Pandu’s line. He had fought for Badi Maa’s humiliation, for the insult that had burned through his family before he had even been old enough to understand the full shape of it. He had fought for dharma. For justice. For the world his elders had promised must be restored.

He had not shamed his father’s name.

There was a strange peace in it, a sense of liberation, of a promise kept. He had given everything he had. Every lesson. Every breath. Every ounce of courage in his young bones. He had spent himself fully, like an arrow loosed from the string, and now there was nothing left to hold back.

Nothing left to fear. And then his gaze fell upon the amulet.

It lay against his ruined chest, half-buried beneath blood and torn cloth. The thread had darkened. The small charm was cracked at the edge, but still there.

Uttara.

My dearest love, I should have told her I love her.

The peace inside him broke. He had not known marriage could be so brief and still leave such a wound.

Theirs had been a short marriage.

They had not had years to learn every corner of each other’s hearts. He had not yet memorized all her moods, all her fears, all the little things that made her laugh when she tried not to.

Yet there had been things he had just begun to learn: like how she liked her hair braided in the mornings, or which songs she hummed when she thought no one was listening, or what dreams she carried quietly inside herself when she looked at the moon.

Gods above, I love her.

He had loved her as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

My poor Uttara. My brave Uttara.

She had been so proud of him. That was what made it worse. She had stood beside him with her chin lifted, eyes shining whenever the songs of his valor reached her ears. Others praised him, and she would try to hide her smile, as if pride were something she could tuck away beneath her veil.

He had seen the fear too. The first time they had truly argued was after Uttar fell on the first day of war.

Her brother’s death had torn something open in her. Abhimanyu remembered the way she had stood before him, pale and trembling, refusing to cry until the doors were shut. Then she had struck his chest with both fists, not hard enough to hurt, only hard enough to show him that grief needed somewhere to go.

“You will all go,” she had whispered, voice breaking. “One by one, you will all go, and we are expected to stand here and be proud.”

He had caught her hands. “Uttara....Priye...”

“No,” she had said, tears spilling then. “Leave the warrior outside, where the war can have him. In this room, speak to me like my husband.”

The words had pierced him more deeply than any arrow. So he had held her. He had promised her he would be careful. He had promised her he would return.

And because songs of his valor had already reached her, because she had seen him train, seen him ride, seen warriors twice his age praise his skill, she had believed him.

Or perhaps she had wanted to.

That morning, the morning he died, she had held his wrist before he left.

He remembered it now with cruel clarity. Her fingers around his arm. The tremor she tried to hide. The amulet in her palm, warm from her touch.

“Wear this,” she had said.

He had smiled. “Do you think a thread can protect me?”

“I hope it will,” she replied, tying it carefully around him. “Or has my lord decided my prayers mean nothing?”

He had softened then, because how could he not? She had looked so young in that moment. It was just his Uttara, frightened by a morning that felt wrong.

“Times are not good,” she had whispered. He should have listened more carefully.

Instead, he had laughed gently, trying to ease the fear from her face.

This war too shall pass.

He had told her.

Those had been his last words to her.

He had been running late. His father was waiting. The army was moving. The world was rushing toward blood and duty and fate, and Abhimanyu, foolish Abhimanyu, had thought there would be another evening. Another dawn. Another chance to say all the things that sat quietly in his heart.

So he had pressed a quick kiss to her temple. A hurried touch: a promise without enough words.

Then he had run after his father.

Now he looked at the amulet on his broken body and wished with everything left of him that he had stayed for one breath longer.

I should have said more.

The regret rose in him, vast and unbearable.

I should have told her.

I should have told her that her eyes shine brighter than the stars the gods themselves shaped into the night. I should have told her that her kindness dwarfs all my valor, all my skill, all the glory men throw at my feet. I should have told her that when she smiles, I forget I was born for war.

He had not yet learned all the small, ordinary things that made her herself.

He knew she liked tending to the palace gardens in the early morning, before the servants came, when the dew still clung to the jasmine leaves and the world had not yet begun asking anything of her. She would kneel in the soil with the seriousness of a priestess making offerings, scolding the flowering vines for growing too wildly, praising the stubborn little herbs that survived heat and neglect.

Once, he had found her there with mud on her fingers and a smudge across her cheek.

She had looked horrified to be caught so plainly. Abhimanyu had thought she looked more beautiful than any queen in a jeweled court.

He should have told her that too.

He should have told her he loved the way she cared for growing things. The way she believed wilted flowers could be coaxed back with patience. The way she treated even the smallest living thing as if it deserved tenderness.

Perhaps that was why her fear had wounded him so deeply.

Uttara knew how fragile life was. He had been foolish enough to think courage could make him an exception.

I should have told her that the thought of our future made me giddy like a child.

A future.

The word hurt now.

He had imagined one, though he had never said it aloud. He had imagined returning from war with dust in his hair and victory at his back. He had imagined Uttara scolding him for some new scar, then touching it with hands too gentle for anger. He had imagined walking with her through palace gardens when no one needed him to be brave. He had imagined learning her properly, slowly, over years. Her laughter, her stubbornness, her favorite flowers. The way she would look holding their child.

Their child.

Something in him trembled. He had not known. Or perhaps some part of him had. Some quiet, sacred part that had looked at Uttara that morning and wanted to stay.

My love.

My wife.

Forgive me.

I thought I had time.

And if there was another birth after this one, another turning of the wheel, another chance granted by gods kinder than war, then let him find her again.

Not as a prince, perhaps. Not as a warrior.

Let him be born as something simple.

A gardener’s son with soil beneath his nails.

A bird nesting in the branches above her courtyard.

A deer drinking from the pond where she came to water her flowers.

Even a stray dog sleeping in the shade of her garden wall, if that was all fate would allow.

He did not care.

Only let him be near her.

Let him know her again in some quiet life untouched by war. Let him watch her tend to jasmine in the morning. Let him hear her laugh without fear behind it.

Let me grow old beside her, or fly above her, or curl at her feet in the sun.

Any life. Any form. If Uttara was there, if Uttara was his, he would live it gladly.

Again and again and again.

But as the battlefield slipped farther away, as his broken body became smaller beneath him, as the amulet glimmered once in the dying light, he held on to the only prayer left to him.

Let her know.

Please.

Let her know I love her.

Let her know I wanted to grow old with her.

Beneath my duty, beneath my vows, beneath every sacrifice I made for this war, I wanted a full life with her: until her hair turned white beside mine, until my teeth grew loose, until my hands forgot the bow but still remembered hers.

A life where I came home to her.

Let her know. Let her know I loved her.

[yumjum414]

Lotus and Mangoes: Bheema and Sahadeva

(The Brothers of Indraprastha Series)

I was watching Chhota Bheem and found myself wondering...who does the mighty Bhima call Chhote? And well… this happened.

They were lost.

Bheema refused to admit it.

Sahadeva had already accepted it because he was wise.

And because this was not even remotely like the route they were supposed to be on.

They had not even been meant to travel together. The mission itself had been simple enough: escort relief supplies to a distant village struck by flooding, a request that had come, of course, from Hastinapur.

Bheema was still annoyed about that.

“They hate us, but still want our help,” he had grumbled the entire first day. “Next time, let Duryodhana carry sacks of grain himself.”

Yudhishthira, as always, had only said, “Our Karma should not choose sides, My dearest brother.”

Which was precisely the kind of answer Bheema disliked.

Arjuna would have come, he always did, but he had been called away to manage yet another disaster in Hastinapur.

Naturally, it was one of Duryodhana’s doing. Some petty argument with the prince of Kashi, something about pride and insult: something Bheema hadn’t bothered to remember the details. He rarely did, when it came to Duryodhana’s nonsense.

What mattered was the result.

Arjuna had to go to fix a mess that was never theirs to begin with.

“Naturally,” Bheema had muttered. “They break something, then ask us to fix it.”

Nakula had fallen ill the night before departure, nothing serious, Sahadeva had assured them, but enough to keep him from traveling.

And so-

it had been Bheema.

And Sahadeva.

An unlikely pair, according to everyone else. Perfectly reasonable, according to Bheema…though he would never say that out loud.

“These are not the hills we crossed this morning,” Sahadeva said calmly, adjusting the bundle on his shoulder.

Bheema squinted at the horizon. “They look the same.”

“They very obviously do not.”

“They are hills.”

“They are different hills. The ones we crossed had oak and Sakhua trees.”

“Pff…like you know all plants.” Sahadeva gave him a flat look. Oh yeah, He does. Bheema forgot his brother was bat-shit crazy.

…Right.

Bheema cleared his throat, entirely unbothered, and waved a dismissive hand before slapping the younger’s back with far too much enthusiasm.

“We are not lost, I’m certain this is the right way.”

“We are lost, Bhratashree. We have been standing at this very junction for the past three hours.”

“Like I said, this is the right way. Just not the short way.”

“That,” Sahadeva said mildly, “does not reassure me in the slightest.”

Bheema snorted and promptly dragged him into a rough headlock, ruffling his hair.

“Relax, Deva. You have to let things go sometimes. Let destiny flow. We needed this detour.”

“No,” Sahadeva agreed, voice perfectly even despite the assault. “What we need is a map.”

Bheema pulled back just enough to glare at him.

Sahadeva adjusted his shawl, expression unchanged. “Preferably one you intend to follow.”

“We had a map.”

“You ignored it.”

“Well, yes. It did not even show that village, you know, the one renowned for its mangoes. It was a rubbish map.”

Sahadeva let out a slow breath, attempting to free his head from Bheema’s merciless hold. “I cannot believe you just called a map made by the Treasurer of Madra himself rubbish. All for what? Mangoes.”

“Well, they were the size of your face, you little menace. Of course, we had to go.”

“and for what? We are now lost.”

“We are not lost.”

Sahadeva nodded once. “Of course. The unfamiliar terrain, the wrong vegetation, and the complete absence of the road are all clearly part of your plan.”

Bheema stopped walking.

Turned.

Pointed a finger at him. “We would not be on this longer route if you had not insisted on going to that cursed pond.”

“It was not cursed,” Sahadeva corrected, voice still maddeningly calm. “It was blessed.”

“It was full of leeches! A man even my size was a feast for those creatures.” Bheema gestured dramatically at his legs. “I have sacrificed my favorite dhoti to get you that stupid lotus, and you cannot even appreciate the most glorious mangoes in existence.”

Sahadeva sighed, long-suffering. “It was far from stupid, Bhaiya. That lotus blooms once every five years.”

“I nearly drowned in leeches.”

“You did not drown.”

Bheema scoffed. “And you were going to jump in after it yourself.”

“Yes, I was going to. And I imagine you would be more tolerable if I did so.”

“And I was just supposed to stand there and watch my brother get devoured?”

“I would not have been devoured.”

“You absolutely would have been devoured.”

“And you did not say no,” Sahadeva finished helpfully.

“I couldn’t say no.”

“That sounds like a you problem, Bhratashree.”

Bheema muttered something under his breath and looked away. Because of course, he hadn’t been able to say no.

Not when Sahadeva had stood there-calm, stubborn, entirely certain-and then, just for a moment, not certain at all.

Those eyes. Big, soft, quietly expectant- unfair, totally unfair...Like he already knew Bheema would say yes.

Bheema had seen that look before: on a much smaller face. A younger Sahadeva, barely tall enough to reach his arm, standing there with the same quiet insistence-never loud, never demanding, just looking at him like that.

Bheema had been eight then, already broad, already towering, and had sighed like the world had burdened him greatly before scooping the boy up in one easy motion.

“Fine,” he had grumbled.

Sahadeva had not smiled but had settled into Bheema’s arms like he had expected nothing less.

Bheema had been doomed from that moment.

It was no secret that the mighty Bheema was a complete loser when it came to his brothers.

Arjuna had done it too: those wide amber eyes, far too sharp even as a child, fixed on a target he was absolutely not supposed to be practicing on.

“I can hit it,” Arjuna had insisted, bow far too big for him, stance uneven but determined.

“No,” Bheema had said.

Arjuna had looked at him.

Just looked.

Five minutes later, Bheema was holding the target himself.

And pretending he hadn’t agreed to it.

Nakula was worse. So much worse, he had never even bothered pretending innocence.

He would grin- bright, mischievous, entirely aware of what he was doing, and Bheema would already be planning revenge.

Terrible revenge. Elaborate revenge and then Nakula would smile again… Bheema would forget every single plan he had made.

It was useless to argue. All of them had him like this.

Sahadeva… His Chhote never needed words. Never needed persuasion. Just those quiet, deer-like eyes, watching him like he already knew the answer. Bheema had never once proven him wrong, while Sahadeva never argued, never pleaded and just simply looked.

And somehow, that was worse. Bheema had never managed to learn how to refuse that look. He never wanted to.

So he had waded into that cursed pond without another word.

Spent an entire hour afterward pulling leeches off himself with the patience of a saint, he absolutely was not.

Ruined his favorite dhoti.

And for what?

A flower.

A  STUPID flower.

Bheema scowled harder.

…………………………………

By the time the sun dipped low, even Bheema had stopped arguing.

Mostly.

“We will camp here,” he said, dropping his pack.

Sahadeva glanced around. “This is not an ideal location.”

“It has ground, trees- and trees mean shade… and food. I am satisfied.”

“That is not the only requirement.”

“It has trees.”

“Those are thin trees.”

Bheema frowned. “Do not insult the trees for their modest build.”

Sahadeva rolled his eyes and dropped his bag with a thud. Bheema snorted.

Still, he set about making camp with practiced ease-gathering wood, clearing space, building a fire.

Sahadeva watched for a moment, then quietly joined him, adjusting small details Bheema would never notice, arranging things just so.

Between the two of them- It became something steady. The fire crackled to life. Bheema sat down heavily, stretching out his legs. “See? Perfect.”

He leaned back against a tree, one leg stretched out, the other bent, watching the flames with half-lidded eyes.

Across from him- no, not even across, because Sahadeva had somehow drifted closer without Bheema noticing - sat his youngest brother.

Fidgeting.

Bheema frowned slightly. Sahadeva did not fidget. He was usually still. Composed and quiet in that way that made others feel louder just by existing near him.

So, without a word, Bheema reached over, adjusted Sahadeva’s shawl, and tugged him closer, bundling him at his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sahadeva allowed it. Of course he did. Bheema watched him for a long moment.

“…You’re moving too much,” he said finally. Sahadeva stilled immediately. “I am not.”

“You are fidgeting.”

“I am not fidgeting.”

“You are.”

A pause. Then Sahadeva, very deliberately, folded his hands in his lap and went completely still. Bheema snorted. “…Now you look like a statue. That’s worse.”

Sahadeva did not respond. Instead, after a moment, he reached forward and picked up a small cloth from their pack. Without asking, he shifted closer-closer still-and nudged Bheema’s leg.

“Hold still.”

Bheema frowned. “What are you doing?”

“Your legs, Bhaiya,” Sahadeva said calmly. “They are beginning to resemble a lotus seed head. I would rather they did not.”

“Spare me your dramatics-”

“I would,” Sahadeva replied, already untying the edge of Bheema’s dhoti where dark stains had dried into the fabric, “but if you acquire any more holes, we may have to classify you as plant life.”

Bheema snorted. “I am not-”

“I would prefer you remain human,” Sahadeva added, as if that settled the matter. Bheema sighed, “…They are not that bad.”

Sahadeva did not look up.Bheema glanced down, and who was he kidding…It did look bad…. Disgustingly bad.

“Hai Prabhu,” he thought. “Was that pond breeding leeches for sport?” Bheema huffed but did not pull away.

Sahadeva dipped the cloth in a small bowl of water, then began cleaning the bite marks-gentle, precise, utterly unbothered by Bheema’s size or complaints.

He was smaller than the rest of them, not weak, never that, but built lighter. Sharper. Like something precise rather than overwhelming.

“…That’s it?” Bheema asked, glancing down.

“For now.”

Sahadeva tied the cloth with quiet precision, fingers steady, practiced.

“You’re welcome,” he added calmly.

Bheema snorted. And despite himself, he smiled.

The fire crackled softly between them. For a while, neither spoke. Sahadeva’s hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary, resting lightly against Bheema’s leg, as if ensuring the bandage would hold. Then he withdrew, folding them back into his lap.

Still. Too still. So,Bheema noticed.

Sahadeva’s gaze drifted back to the fire, but this time, he wasn’t really looking at it.

The fidgeting had stopped but the thinking hadn’t. Silence stretched and then, quietly, like it had been sitting on his tongue the whole time-

“…Nakula’s fever has not broken yet,” Sahadeva said quietly. “I received word from Dada.”

Ah. There it was. Bheema grunted. “It will. Illness runs rampant due to the reckless dive into the freezing lakes, you know.” That got the faintest flicker of something across Sahadeva’s face: uncertainty, quickly masked.

Bheema noticed. He leaned back against the tree, eyes drifting to the fire, letting the silence sit for a moment longer than usual.

Then- casually, like it wasn’t a change of subject at all-

“…That pond,” he said. “You didn’t go there just because it was rare, did you?”

Sahadeva went still. Bheema tilted his head, eyeing him. “What was it for?”

“…Nothing.”

“Liar.” “I am not-”

“You won’t even look at me.” Sahadeva’s doe brown eyes snapped to his immediately. Too quick, brows twitching.

Sahadeva exhaled, just slightly. “…It can be used to make incense,” he said at last. “The flower. When dried properly.”

Bheema raised an eyebrow. “Incense.”

“Yes.”

“For?”

“…Medicinal purposes.”

“Mm.”

“It helps with fevers.”

“Of course it does.”

Sahadeva nodded, a little too firmly.

Bheema stared at him.

“…Say that again.”

Sahadeva hesitated. Again, a small twitch at his brow.

“It helps with fevers,” he repeated, quieter this time.

Bheema leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grin widening.

“…You’re lying again.”

“I am not-”

“Yes am.”

“I am not.”

“You are absolutely lying.” Sahadeva pressed his lips together and the elder waited.

“…Nakula likes the scent,” Sahadeva muttered finally, Bheema blinked.

“…What?”

Sahadeva stared at the fire now, very intently. “He likes it. The flower. He mentioned it once. That it smelled… pleasant.”

A beat.

Then Bheema burst out laughing. Not a quiet chuckle: never that.

It came out loud, full-bodied, the kind of laugh that seemed to shake through him, shoulders rolling, head thrown back like the world itself had just told him the best joke it knew.

“You nearly got yourself devoured-” he started, still laughing.

“I did not…you did-”

“-in a pond filled with lethal leeches?”

“It was not just-”

“For a couple of nice-smelling flowers for Nakula?”

Sahadeva turned sharp. “Do not say it like that.”

“How should I say it?” Bheema wheezed, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Oh, Sahadeva, bravest of us all, risking life and limb for fragrance-”

“It was not-” Sahadeva’s eyebrow twitched.

“-for your twin-”

Sahadeva reached out and smacked his arm, whining like a kid he used to be before they came to Hastinapur, “Bhratashree.”

It did absolutely nothing, Bheema barely seemed to notice.

His arm, broad as it was, hard as carved stone, simply absorbed the hit as he kept laughing, entirely unbothered. If anything, it made him laugh harder.

Sahadeva watched him then. The way he leaned back against the tree like it had grown there just to support him.

laughter- so loud, so open-like nothing had ever taught him to hold it back.

For a moment, just a moment, Sahadeva almost smiled. Something in his chest loosened. The tightness he had carried all evening eased, just a little, pulled apart by Bheema’s sheer refusal to let anything sit heavy for too long.

Then it softened and faded.

“…Bhrata,” he said quietly.

Bheema’s laughter slowed, tapering off in uneven bursts before settling into a low, lingering chuckle. He dragged a hand through his hair, still grinning, still bright in a way only he could be.

“Hm?”

Sahadeva hesitated.

His gaze dropped back to the fire, fingers curling slightly into the fabric at his knees.

The words came slower this time. Careful and measured, always too thoughtful, his Deva.

“…It was not just that.”

Bheema snorted softly, wiping at the corner of his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, voice rougher now but lighter still, “I figured, idiot.”

There was no bite in it. Only familiarity and affection. Bheema leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees now, grin fading just enough to show he was listening.

“Go on, Deva.”

“It used to be one of the key ingredients in Mata Madri’s perfume.”

Bheema stilled, not sharply or too dramatically but just enough to let the atmosphere change.

“…What?” he asked, voice lower now.

Sahadeva didn’t look at him. “In Madra, it was rare. Difficult to obtain. But she liked it.” His fingers moved absently over the edge of his shawl. “Life in the forest was strict. Simple, I can imagine it was difficult for her. There was not much room for indulgence.”

He paused, drawing in a small breath. And for a fleeting moment, both of them saw her.

Like fragments that refused to leave, her soft voice humming them to sleep. The gentle weight of a hand smoothing their hair. The quiet warmth of being held without words.

Something distant, blurred by time, but still there.

“Life in the forest was taxing for her, but she allowed herself that one thing.”

The fire cracked softly between them.  “I do not remember her face.”

Bheema turned to face his brother with a snap of his neck.

“What?”

“Not clearly,” Sahadeva corrected, almost apologetically. “It fades. I try to hold on to it, but…” He shook his head faintly. “Every year, it becomes less.”

Bheema’s jaw tightened.

They had all been young, too young. Sahadeva, Nakula- barely old enough to understand what they had lost. Barely old enough to remember her as anything more than warmth and fragments.

Even Bheema’s own memories felt… incomplete at times.

He remembers in pieces. A gentil and teasing voice. Kind and loving caress. A fleeting image that slipped away the moment he tried to hold it.

Remembering hurt because it was never enough. Never enough to truly hold on to the beautiful woman their mother had been.

Sahadeva gave a small shrug, as if it were something ordinary, something inevitable. Then, almost absently, he reached out and poked at Bheema’s cheek-right where his jaw had gone rigid.

“It is what it is,” he said.

Bheema caught his wrist mid-second poke. “Don’t say it like that,” he muttered.

Sahadeva’s voice softened as it trembled when he spoke again, “…Nakula looks like her.”

Bheema exhaled slowly, gaze settling on the fire.

“Yes,” he said. “He does.”  In Nakula’s bright eyes and easy, radiant grace- the same soft beauty and quiet warmth Madri’s green ones had carried- lingered like a memory that refused to fade.

Sahadeva’s lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, but something warmer.

“I think…” he paused, choosing his words more carefully now, “I am the fortunate one.”

Bheema glanced at him.

Sahadeva continued, “I do not remember her face. Not clearly. But Nakula…” His gaze drifted, thoughtful. “Every time I look at him, I see her.”

A small breath.

“I do not have to remember. I just have to look.”

Bheema said nothing.

“I think,” Sahadeva added, almost to himself, “that is a kindness she left me.”

“And Nakula-” his fingers tightened slightly in his lap, “he will always have her face.”

“But he will not find her in mine.” Bheema’s gaze sharpened. Sahadeva looked back into the flames.

“I thought… perhaps I could give him that,” he said softly. “So he would not only see her, but remember her in another way too.”

The lotus. The damned leech-infested lotus. Bheema stared at him for a long moment. At this quiet, thoughtful, maddeningly selfless boy who never asked for anything and yet always found ways to give.

“…Idiot,” Bheema muttered. There was no bite in it. Sahadeva didn’t react. At his Chhote: quiet, stubborn, far too thoughtful for his own good.

“…I’m not saying Mata Kunti-” he began, quickly, almost defensive.

“I know I know-” Bheema cut in, firm and immediate. Sahadeva blinked as Bheema leaned forward, forearms on his knees, voice rough but steady. “I know what you’re saying. And you’re not wrong.”

Sahadeva’s fingers stilled. “I’m not comparing-”

“You don’t have to,” Bheema said.

“Deva… you don’t have to justify missing her. Remembering Mata Madri does not take anything away from Mata Kunti.”

The words settled heavily, but it lighten the load in Sahadeva’s heart.

“She raised all of us,” Bheema continued. “More than anyone should have had to. Fed us, fought for us, kept us together when everything else fell apart. But that doesn’t mean we forget the one we lost.”

Sahadeva looked at him then. Bheema didn’t look back. He kept his gaze on the fire.

“…I remember her,” he said.

Sahadeva’s breath caught, just faintly, as he looked at that stupid dumb smile on his brother’s face.

“She had the most brilliant laugh,” Bheema went on, voice softer now, “And the best storyteller, I swear. Softer than Mata Kunti… and she loved doting on us. Spoiled Arjuna and me rotten before you two were even born.” He paused, frowning slightly as he reached for something half-forgotten. “But you two-” a quiet huff of amusement slipped out, “-you were a handful. I suppose that’s when I saw a stricter side of her too. Still…” his expression eased, something fond settling there, “she never stayed strict for long.”

A small pause.

“She used to sit with you both in the mornings, before the rest of us woke up,” he added, voice quieter now. “I don’t remember if it was prayers or lullabies- but with her, it always sounded like one. She had the best voice.”

A small pause. “You’d just lean against her, like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

Sahadeva’s voice came out softer. “I… don’t remember that.”

“Yeah,” Bheema said, a faint huff of fondness in his voice. He lifted his hand, pinching his fingers together to show just how small. “You were about this big.”

Sahadeva snorted softly, eyes misting, and for a fleeting moment, the scent of lotus seemed to bloom in his memory.

“…We all miss her,” Bheema added, more quietly now. “I… I know I don’t say it out loud, but I do. I miss her.”

Sahadeva nodded slowly, swallowing a lump in his throat. “I know.”

Sahadeva looked at Bheema-his brother, a giant of a man, all strength and noise and certainty… and beneath it, something just as vast: a quiet, unwavering sincerity, and a love that never needed words to be understood.

“If you ever-ever-need someone to talk to about her… about father…” he said, voice rough, “come to me. Or Arjuna. Or Jestha. We don’t have much, but we were her sons too.”

“I’ll tell you everything I remember. Every little thing.”

He hesitated, then added, softer-

“And from what I do remember… I can tell you this much- she would be so, so proud of her two… Madra princes.”

Sahadeva’s breath hitched. He tried to steady it but failed. A suppressed gasp slipped past his lips, quiet, like something he had been holding in for far too long had finally found its way out.

“I just miss her every day.”

Bheema didn’t answer with words.

He shifted instead, reaching out to nudge Sahadeva’s shoulder: firm, grounding, familiar.

“I know, Deva,” he said.

That was enough. The fire burned lower, and the night grew softer around them. After a while, Sahadeva spoke again.

“…Do not tell Nakula.”

Bheema snorted faintly. “Why not?”

“He will never let me hear the end of it.”

“Hehe, Then I obviously have to tell him.” Sahadeva shot him a look. A proper glare: sharp, indignant, a little too earnest to be truly threatening.

Bheema only grinned wider. “…You’re threatening me now with that cute glare?”

“Yes.” Sahadeva gave him a look. “…I will tell him about the horse.”

Bheema froze. “…What horse?”

Sahadeva’s expression didn’t change. “His favorite one. The one with the… unfortunate haircut.”

Bheema scoffed. “It was not unfortunate. The hair was getting in its eyes.”

“You cut it unevenly. Even Dada laughed when he saw it.”

“Well, yes-” Bheema lifted his chin. “It has character now. Anyone can tell it’s Nakula’s horse.”

“Nakula almost cried.”

“He did not.” Bheema frowned. “Even he did, it's just hair…It will grow back.”

“Ah,” Sahadeva nodded. “Then perhaps I should tell Nakula who the artist behind the art was.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“I think I will.”

“Chhote-”

“He should appreciate your… artistry.”

“Stop.” Sahadeva almost smiled. Bheema groaned. “…Fine. We’re even.”

“For now,” Sahadeva said calmly. “…I saved you from leeches and this is wha-”

“And I am saving you from Nakula’s revenge.” Bheema paused, then nodded. “…That’s fair.”

Sahadeva relaxed, just a fraction. Bheema noticed. He shifted closer without thinking, one large hand coming up to cup the back of Sahadeva’s head, pulling him gently-easily-into his side.

“Come here,” he muttered. Sahadeva didn’t resist. Bheema reached for his angvastra, rough fingers surprisingly careful as he wiped at the faint dampness still clinging to Sahadeva’s lashes. The younger tried to swipe at the other eye himself.

“Stop that,” Bheema grumbled. “You’ll make your eyes red.”

“I am not-”

“You are.”

Bheema huffed quietly, adjusting the cloth around his shoulders, tucking it more securely- like he used to when Sahadeva was small enough to carry without effort.

A beat.

“…Still telling Nakula,” he added.

Sahadeva didn’t even look up. “I will tell him about the mangoes too. You didn’t save any for him. Bhratashree, you only gave me one.”

Bheema snorted. “Gods above, I will get you more.”

His thumb brushed absently across Sahadeva’s temple.

“…You cunning little devil,” he muttered.

“You giant baby,” Sahadeva replied.

Bheema grinned faintly.

“Only for you lot.”

[yumjum414]

Hands: Bheema and Arjuna

(The Brothers of Indraprastha Series)

Hi! It’s been a while, I'm not dead!!!! Yayyy!!

I wanted to share a few one-shots I wrote earlier, exploring the dynamics between the Pandava brothers. So this will be a series I guess. Some might be Angsty, or Whumpy, or funny, depending on my mood. lol enjoy I guess.

Bheema had always believed that if you wanted to understand a man, you did not look at his face.

Faces lied. They smiled when they were tired, stayed calm when they were breaking, softened when they wanted to hide the storm underneath.

Eyes, perhaps, told the truth- but Bheema had never had the patience for riddles of the soul.

No.

You looked at their hands.

Hands didn’t pretend. They bore everything- every fight, every failure, every hour spent becoming something greater than you had any right to be.

And Arjuna’s hands…

Arjuna’s hands never learned how to hide.

It was one of those rare, suspiciously peaceful evenings in Indraprastha. No messengers. No arguments. No impending disasters. Bheema didn’t trust it, though.

Peace usually meant something was about to go very wrong, very soon.

Across from him, Arjuna sat cross-legged, entirely too calm for Bheema’s liking, restringing the Gandiva as if the fate of the world depended on perfect tension.

Which, knowing him, it probably did.

Just, mercifully, not today.

His movements were smooth. Controlled. Despite the evetnts of yesterday, they were annoyingly elegant.

Bheema narrowed his eyes.

"Are you planning to marry that bow," he said, "or will you look at your brother before the night ends?"

“I’m already married, Bhrata Bheema.”

“Mm. Yes. That’s never stopped you before, when you snooped poor Subhadra up in your arms” Bheema shot back. “The way you’re tending to that bow, I’m starting to feel replaced.”

Arjuna didn’t even glance up. “Jealous?”

“Of a piece of wood? Absolutely not.”

“First of all,” Arjuna said calmly, adjusting the string, “this is the Gandiva you’re talking about.”

“I said what I said.”

“And second, stop staring at me. You’ve been doing it for the last half an hour.”

“I’m assessing damage.”

That finally made Arjuna pause…just for a second.

“…To what?”

“To you,” Bheema said flatly.

That finally got Arjuna to look up—just briefly, with that infuriating little smirk. "I’m flattered."

"You shouldn’t be."

Bheema leaned forward and, without warning, grabbed Arjuna’s bandaged wrist.

Arjuna sighed immediately. “Here we go.”

“Let me see.”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

“It never is with you.”

Bheema ignored that and flipped his hand over anyway.

And there they were.

The same scars. The same thickened skin. The same stubborn proof that Arjuna had spent his entire life pushing himself far past what was reasonable—or necessary.

Bheema paused, his thumb pressing lightly over one of the rougher calluses.

Arjuna’s fingers smelled faintly of sandalwood: freshly treated, then.

Good.

At least someone had the sense to tend to them.

Bheema’s grip tightened just a fraction as he inspected them, eyes narrowing.

“…Hmph.”

“They’re fine,” Arjuna said, already sounding tired of this.

Bheema ignored that too.

They weren’t crooked. Like they were yesterday, Bheema shudders at his memory.

Bheema clicked his tongue. “Still the same old ugly thing.”

“They’re called hands, Bheema. Most people have them.”

“Most people aren’t idiots.”

Arjuna huffed. “They’re fine.”

Bheema snorted. “I’ve seen better-looking claws on the demons you were so busy showing off against yesterday.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Arjuna shot back, dry. “Next time I’ll make sure my hands look prettier while I’m saving your life.”

“They’re not fine.” Bheema cuts in.

Arjuna finally glanced up, eyebrow raised. “You have calluses from swinging a mace like you’re trying to rearrange the earth. Why is this suddenly a crisis?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I don’t go around breaking my fingers doing something spectacularly foolish.”

Arjuna let out a disbelieving laugh. “Foolish? We were surrounded by demons.”

“And I was handling them.”

“You were punching them.”

“It was working.”

“You got thrown off a cliff.”

Bheema paused. “I was in the air for a brief moment. Stop exaggerating.”

“You were unconscious before you hit the ground.”

“Blah, blah, blah. I was awake-”

Arjuna shook his head, finally setting the Gandiva aside. “I had to jump after you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You were falling into a ravine.”

“I would’ve landed.”

“With what? Your skull?”

Bheema grinned. “A very strong skull. Mata dropped me on a rock when I was a newborn: the rock broke but I was perfectly fine.”

Arjuna snorted. “Yes, I can tell you were dropped as a child, Bhrata. No questions there.”

Bheema smacked the back of his head for that.

“Watch your tongue.”

“You started it,” Arjuna complained, rubbing the spot with an exaggerated wince.

“And yet,” Bheema continued, entirely unbothered, “here I am... stuck with an idiot of a brother with broken fingers because you decided to be dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Arjuna scoffed. “I caught you mid-air.”

Bheema huffed, looking away for a brief second.

It had been impressive.

The distance alone- Arjuna had crossed it in a blink, cutting through demons like they were barely there, and still had the presence of mind to catch him before he hit the ravine.

Ridiculous.

Show-off punk.

Bheema wasn’t about to say any of that out loud.

Instead, he snorted. “You made a whole performance out of it.”

“With one hand,” Bheema added, eyeing his fingers again. “Like a fucking idiot.”

“I didn’t have time to consider better options! How was I supposed to hold on to the cliff then?”

“You have plenty of Astras. Heck, you had plenty of time to let me fall and make a heroic speech later.”

Arjuna, rolled his eyes, “That is not how this works.”

Bheema snorted. “You broke your fingers holding onto me.”

“I did not break them-”

“Yeah...They bent the wrong way,” Bheema cut in a mocking tone. “Sounded like dry twigs snapping.”

“That happens,” Arjuna said with a shrug. “We both know I heal fast. See?”

He lifted his hand right up to Bheema’s face, wiggling his fingers.

“They aren’t even crooked.”

“That is not a reassuring statement.”

Arjuna tried to pull his hand back again. Bheema didn’t let him.

“You never let them heal properly,” he muttered, quieter now.

Arjuna rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “What do you want me to do? Sit out the next battle? Braid flowers with Nakul while you go get yourself thrown off another cliff?”

“At least Nakul would appreciate the effort.”

“And critique my technique.”

“He’d absolutely critique your technique.”

“He critiques everything.”

“Because you’re bad at things that aren’t archery.”

Arjuna gasped, scandalized. “That is slander,” he declared, making a whole performance of it: hand to chest, wounded pride and all.

Bheema just chuckled, low and fond despite himself.

His Phalguna. His headache.

A beat passed.

Then, softer- gruff, almost hidden beneath the teasing-

“…Don’t do that again.”

Arjuna stilled, just for a moment.

He didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t pull his hand away either.

Instead, he tilted his head, eyes glinting faintly. “Then try not tumbling off cliffs,” he said lightly, “and I’ll consider keeping my very precious fingers straight.”

Bheema snorted. “Precious, he says.”

“They are. You rely on them far more than you admit.”

“I rely on me.”

“And who keeps saving you when you get thrown off mountains?”

"It was one time", Bheema bumped his shoulder.

They bumped shoulders again, neither pulling away.

The bickering lingered, easy and familiar, settling into the quiet like it always di, like it always had.

Because this...this was them.

Yudhishthira, who had just arrived, watched them with a small, knowing smile.

These two were not just his brothers. Not just his warriors.

But the spear and the shield of the Pandavas.

Yudhishthira held Dharma like a flame: steady, unwavering, the kind of righteousness kingdoms were built upon.

But Dharma alone did not win thrones.

Dharma needed teeth. It needed a force that made men think twice before testing it.

And that-

that had always been them.

Bheema, who could break mountains and men with equal certainty.

Arjuna, whose arrows never missed, whose focus carved order out of chaos.

Together, they were the promise behind Yudhishthira’s crown.

The reason his justice could exist at all.

The reason the Kauravas did not simply take what they wanted.

Fear had a shape, in those days.

Sometimes it was a mace.

Sometimes it was a bow.

Sometimes it was Bheema’s bare unruly fist, or Arjun’s intelligent wit.

Most often…

it was the two of them, standing side by side.

Unmovable. Unstoppable. Untamable.

Ridiculous.

The Samrat could think of no better word when it came to these two.

“Stop looking at them like that,” Arjuna muttered, trying again to pull his wrist free.

Bheema leaned in closer, squinting with exaggerated scrutiny. “Hai Bhagwan… they look worse up close. Like overcooked roots left out in the sun.”

“Yet, they’ve offended my eyes. I’ve seen my ingrown toenails look better than this.”

Arjuna physically recoiled. “Ew-Bhrata! Why would you say that?”

“It’s accurate.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“They look wretched. Have you ever seen bent sugarcane after someone chewed on it wrong?”

“They do not-”

“They do.”

“They absolutely do not-”

“You’re in denial.”

Arjuna glared at him. “They will heallll.”

“They betterrrrr,” Bheema muttered, still squinting at them like they had personally wronged him.

“Panchali is never going to hold your hand again,” Bheema continued, shaking his head gravely. “Tragic. Truly tragic.”

Arjuna stared at him. “They are bandaged and- again, for the tenth time....healing. And stop saying nonsense. Panchali will absolutely still hold my hands.”

“Subhadra will cry if she sees these,” Bheema added thoughtfully. “You’d better keep them hidden.”

“Oh, for the love of—they will heal,” Arjuna said, dragging the words out slowly, like he was explaining something painfully obvious to a very stubborn child.

“They better.”

“They will.”

“They better,” Bheema insisted.

Arjuna exhaled sharply. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re careless.”

“They will heal,” Arjuna said again, firmer now. “Or I’ll fix them myself.”

Bheema blinked. “What does that even mean? Do you want them to heal or get worse?”

A soft chuckle slipped into the quiet.

Both of them stilled.

“…Jeshtha?” Arjuna said, turning.

Yudhishthira stepped forward, amusement still lingering in his eyes.

“I am certain,” he said dryly, “that between the two of you, the entire forest has been… thoroughly handled.”

Arjuna coughed, looking away. Bheema grunted.

Yudhishthira’s smile deepened just a fraction.

“Panchali has been looking for you both for the past hour.”

That-

That made them straighten.

“Oh,” Arjuna said.

“…Ah,” Bheema added.

Yudhishthira nodded, entirely unsurprised. “Yes.”

A beat.

Then, with quiet fondness-

“Come along. Before she decides to come looking for you herself.”

Arjuna winced. Bheema snorted.

“And stop fighting,” Yudhishthira added mildly.

“We’re not fighting,” they said at the same time. Yudhishthira gave them a look.

And just like that…

the terror of their enemies,

the strength behind a king,

rose to their feet: still bickering, still shoulder to shoulder, and very much still in trouble.

[yumjum414]

Hi...I have read all you have offered so far on Mahabharata and loved it. The style of writing, the way you draw the reader's attention to every minute details, the grasp you have on the inner essence of the characters.

Thank you so much for sharing this with us. Will love to read more when you feel like it.

Thanks!!! I've not been in a good place these past 6 months and it's been a while since I wrote anything. Your comment has truly sort of compelled me to go through my drafts. Maybe I will try to be more active this month😭

[yumjum414]

just a personal thought

Sometimes I really do wonder...if I’d been encouraged to turn my hobbies into a career, would that have made things better or worse? Right now, my hobbies, be it drawing, writing, yada yada, are my escape. They’re what I turn to when I’m bored or when life gets heavy. But if I’d chosen them as my career… would they still feel that way? Or would I have gotten sick of them too?

It’s not like what I’m studying now doesn’t interest me, it does. But even if I’d become an artist, I think I’d still be the same insecure person I am now, constantly feeling like my best efforts never quite measure up to others.

Would I have been more successful if I’d pursued art? If I’d trained harder, would my talent have actually bloomed? Would I be happier? Would I be different? I guess I’ll never really know. All I can do is wonder.

[yumjum414]

I need someone, God, the universe, anyone… to grab me by the hair, slam my face into my laptop, and make me work. I have four plans, a full 3D render due tomorrow, and yet here I am, still procrastinating like it’s my full-time job. What is wrong with me?

[yumjum414]

The test of time

Once, it had only been a tender quarrel: Arjun swearing Abhimanyu’s smile mirrored Subhadra’s, Subhadra insisting it was Arjun’s. Now, as their son lay still upon the earth, that smile gone forever, they saw themselves reflected in him both at once.

Perhaps it was only because, when his breath left him, theirs had faltered too.

Fate, they thought bitterly, must have always been moving toward this moment. Perhaps the end began here: with Abhimanyu’s last stand. Or perhaps it began long ago, when Bhishma fell beneath a hundred arrows. Or earlier still, when Draupadi was dragged across the sabha and no one rose to save her.

But the truth was harder: the war had been building all along, like a slow storm, brick by brick, silence by silence. And now, staring at their son’s still face, they could no longer tell where the beginning had ended, or where the ending had begun

[yumjum414]

Was reading red robin’s run and I couldn’t stop staring at his helmet… took me forever to realize why😂. Man’s rocking Griffith cosplay 💀

[yumjum414]

So I’ve barely touched Demon Slayer before today, but my boyfriend speed-ran me through the plot just so I’d be ready for the new movie… and my gods. I am HOOKED. Tomioka Giyuu… what a MAN. 😩💖 WHAT A MAN WHAT A MAN WHAT A MAN~~~ What a mighty good man 

(spoilers for movie)

And the Akaza plot… oh my gods, almost made me cryyyyy. 🥹 His story was just so… so heartbreaking. My boyfriend used to hate him for killing his favorite character, but now… wow.

The part where he talks about sick people always apologizing for being sick. So tragic, yet so human.

Also, Damn.... the fight scenes were EVERYTHING. 😩 Especially My man Giyuu’s. My gods, Again, what a man. And the Insect Hashira… wow. Cool but more so sad. Felt her pain deeply, too relatable.

I really rooting for her. I thought she would kill her sister's murderer but.... yeah....

but honestly? This movie slapped. Absolutely worth it, even coming from a person who didn't know the plot quite well.

[yumjum414]

To be your son - Part I (A Batfam fanfic)

Alfred Pennyworth had learned, long ago, that Thomas Wayne’s son would never cease punishing himself. Not for tragedies he could never have prevented, and nor for mistakes he had made along the long, lonely road his life had become.

Bruce tried, in every way he knew. After all, he was Batman. A man dressed as a bat, prowling the alleys of Gotham and trading blows with madmen; his greatest adversary a clown.

On the surface it sounded absurd, almost laughable. But Alfred knew better. He had seen the truth beneath the cowl: not theatrics, not indulgence, but a boy who had never learned how to set down his grief. Bruce Wayne had forged an empire out of penance, and Gotham was both his mission and his excuse.

He funded hospitals, rebuilt orphanages, and built a home for wayward boys that might never admit they needed one. And yet, for all his brilliance, Bruce was blind where his children were concerned.

Not out of malice, no, never that… but out of fear.

Fear of failing them the way he had failed Jason, fear of loving too much, fear of choosing wrong.

Timothy, of all the boys, understood this.

Alfred saw it in the quiet way Tim stepped in after Jason’s death. No grand declarations, just the intent to stop Batman's downfall. With simply a sharp tongue, a sharper mind, and a willingness to do what Bruce could not: carry the weight without complaint.

Timothy Drake was clever, yes. But it was his empathy- his maddening, bottomless empathy- that made him invaluable. He could read Bruce like an open book, even when Bruce tried to slam the cover shut. He knew when to step back, when to press forward, when to offer logic, and when to offer silence.

And Alfred feared that very gift would be the one to break him.

Tim had saw Bruce at his worst and chose to stay.

And For Bruce, blind in his grief, sometimes mistook Timothy’s quiet strength for resilience without limit. He relied on the boy, leaned on him, but often forgot that Timothy was not made of stone. Alfred could see the toll in the boy’s posture, in the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

Because at the end of the day, Timothy was human. He had limits. He had fears, and hurts, and the right to falter.

And when Bruce’s hand slammed against Timothy’s small cheeks that day, Alfred saw that boy crumble like a house of cards.

…………………………

The first sign of doom came in the form of silence.

The Cave was rarely quiet, it breathed with the hum of computers, the shuffle of boots, the low murmur of voices that never quite faded. But this silence was different. It was taut, waiting. The kind of silence that came before a storm.

Alfred descended the stone steps, a tray balanced in his hands, and saw it: Bruce at the console, posture rigid, jaw set. The usual.

The monitors glowed with live feeds from Arkham Asylum. Sirens wailed faintly through the speakers, masked by the keystrokes of Bruce’s impatient hands.

“Arkham,” Bruce said without looking up. His voice was a growl, clipped and dangerous. “It’s gone dark.”

On another night, Alfred might have made some dry remark about the institution’s laughable security, but there was no space for wit here. The feeds spoke for themselves: chaos in the halls, guards down, inmates flooding the corridors.

“Which inmates, sir?” Alfred asked.

“All of them,” Bruce replied grimly.

That was when the others spilled in. Dick tugging on gloves, Jason with a pistol tucked under his jacket despite Bruce’s scowl, Tim already tapping away at a handheld device, his face drawn with focus. Damian was the last, sword strapped across his back, eyes alight with the eager recklessness that Alfred had grown to dread.

Orders snapped quickly. Dick and Jason were to contain the perimeter and most of the prisoners. Tim would coordinate from the van, keeping lines of communication clear for the two. Damian, too young - in Alfred’s mind, far too young- was determined to fight at Bruce’s side who would deal with Joker.

Alfred set the tray down quietly, unseen. His tea would go cold, as it always did. He watched as they filed out, the family moving like pieces on a chessboard, all revolving around Bruce’s singular, stubborn gravity.

………………………..

Arkham was chaos, but that was nothing new.

What was new was the sheer scale. Someone, and it didn’t take a genius to guess who, had cut power to the entire south block. Overriding locks and frying security grids. Cells gaped open like broken teeth. The corridors heaved with screaming inmates, a boiling tide of orange jumpsuits and improvised weapons.

In the middle of it all, three bats carved their way through the madness.

Dick Grayson swung from railing to railing, escrima sticks a blur as he cracked them against skulls and wrists. He moved like water and lighting: every hit was precise, non-lethal, but brutal enough to keep bodies down. His suit caught the red glow of emergency strobes, painting him like some impossible shadow in motion.

As Dick slammed a man back to his cell, his vision caught sight of Jason’s helmet reflected firelight from a burning door as he drove a pistol butt into a man’s teeth. He didn’t hold back: breaking bones, knocking guns into corners, firing rubber bullets with a sharpshooter’s aim. The thugs who saw the red hood coming tended to run.

Dick skidded to a halt on the railing, watching Jason’s chaos unfold. “Nice helmet, Hood. Did the creepy glowing eyes come free, or was that a deluxe feature?”

Jason froze mid-swing. “…You wouldn’t get it, circus boy.”

“Oh, I get it.” Dick flipped down to the floor. “Terrifying…if you’re five. Or have a deep-seated fear of angry traffic cones.”

Jason’s glare could’ve melted steel. Dick spun his sticks. “Relax. Just making sure the headgear isn’t stealing your thunder.”

Across the floor, Tim’s staff cracked into another thug’s ribs before flicking out in a perfect arc to sweep two more off their feet. His gauntlet screen lit with schematics and heat signatures as his fingers flew, locking systems down one after another

 “Boys, Focus,” he snapped through comms; sharp, commanding, as if he wasn’t the youngest in the room.

Dick sighed, blocking an incoming swing. “We are focusing. I just multitask with commentary.”

Jason snorted. “You’re insufferable.”

Dick landed beside Tim, grinning. “I'm being entertaining for a change, Hood. Try it sometime: less broody, more smiles and jokes. Builds morale you know!”

Tim could only sigh, shaking his head as he adjusted his grip on the staff. He allowed the faintest smile to slip through-  small, tired, but genuine- because that was Dick. Always finding room for light even when surrounded by madness.

Again, after a while Tim’s voice cut cleanly through the comms, crisp and businesslike despite the chaos around them.

 “Alright, South hall secured. East hall is still active. Twenty-two inmates, armed with pipes and at least one shotgun. Reinforcements are moving through sublevel three.”

Jason slammed a man into the wall hard enough to rattle the plaster, voice dripping with dry amusement. “Oh good. A shotgun. I was worried this was going to get dull.”

Dick swept an inmate’s legs out from under him and flashed Jason a grin. “We wouldn’t want you falling asleep on the job, Jay.”

Jason snorted, pistol-whipping another attacker. “Hey! No names in the field, and don’t flatter yourself, Golden Boy. I’m only here because Joker’s in play.”

Tim's tone was flat, almost bored. “And here I thought it was because you missed family bonding night.”

Jason barked out a laugh under his helmet. “Smartass.”

The tide pressed harder, the flood of inmates swelling from every direction. Dick vaulted from the balcony above, flipping midair with the easy grace of a performer, and landed squarely on two men at once. 

The crack of bone and grunt of pain followed as they hit the floor. Jason holstered his pistol just long enough to rip a metal pipe from an inmate’s hands and swung it like a bat, sending the man sprawling.

“Home run,” he muttered.

Tim finished locking down another gate, trapping a cluster of escapees behind steel bars. “That’s fifteen contained,” he reported without looking up. He ducked under a clumsy swing, drove his staff into a ribcage, and added, bone-dry: “Only two hundred left to go.”

Dick rolled his eyes, spinning his sticks with a flourish. “Love the optimism, Red.”

Jason’s laugh rang harsh and amused. “Guess the replacement picked up sarcasm from me after all.”

Yet despite the constant stream of barbs, there was an easy rhythm between them. Tim’s voice cut in sharp and commanding: “Behind you, left side!” Dick shifted instantly, turning to meet the blow without hesitation. And Jason, for all his growling, was there in the next breath: ripping a knife free before it could slash Tim’s throat.

Tim barely looked up, already typing on his gauntlet again. “Thanks,” he muttered.

Jason’s grin was audible through the comms. “I’ll put it on your tab.”

For all the chaos, for all the violence, the three of them moved like gears in a well-worn machine. Messy, loud, and biting- but it worked. Against Arkham’s storm, it almost felt like a soothing breeze.

Then Bruce’s voice split through their comms. It wasn’t the low, even tone of Batman, steady and unshakable. This was raw, sharp, edged with something none of them had ever heard before: fear.

“Code White. Cave. Now.”

The words hit harder than any blow. Tim froze mid-strike, chest tightening as the meaning sank in. Jason’s hand clenched white-knuckled around his pistol. Dick felt his stomach lurch, a heavy drop like falling from a wire.

Code White. Someone was fatally wounded, or worse, dead. 

There were no questions, no hesitation. In an instant, the banter vanished. All three turned and bolted, leaving the groaning wreckage of Arkham’s inmates behind them.

to be continued...

[yumjum414]

A Warrior in Hiding, A Bride in Knowing

When the tall brahmin stepped forward, my heart skipped a beat.

His complexion was deep as dusk, rich as storm-laden clouds before the first crack of lightning. His presence was not the blazing brilliance of the sun, nor the pale luminescence of the moon: he was the steady, unshaken night, vast and enduring.

As he stepped forward, the folds of his saffron robes whispered against the marble floor.  There was no need for ornament to mark him as extraordinary. His bearing alone- the controlled grace in his stride, the effortless tension of his muscles- was enough.

My gods, his eyes, gods… his eyes.  Amber-bright, sharp as the edge of a honed arrow, yet carrying a gentleness rare among men. The only thing I knew for sure was that they were not the eyes of a simple wanderer. Emotive, alive, and utterly unafraid.

The hall saw only a Brahmin. But I… I knew.

A man like this does not come cloaked in saffron unless he wishes to truly hide. His shoulders bore the memory of armor, his stance the training of countless hours at the bow. His disguise was worked on, but a man like that is difficult to hide.

I, myself born of flame- from the raging fire of a sacred hawan kunda- recognized the contradiction before me: a man who held within him both blaze and stillness, the ferocity of fire and the calm of the storm. A tiger among men. 

Yet, when he greeted me, bowing with courtesy before my father, my brother, and then me, the court rippled with laughter. Laughter.

Am I not the one for whom this Swayamvara is held? Am I not the bride they seek to win? Then why, when I am greeted, do they jeer as though it were some jest? Am I so insignificant, or are they so uncivilized, so blind to the most basic of courtesies?

What are these kings and princes worth? They preen and strut, froth at the mouth with boasts and wounded pride, yet not one of them could master the task my father set. Are their egos so fragile they cannot bear to acknowledge their own limits? Where is the grace, the nobility, the dignity that is meant to belong to the royalty of Aryavarta?

But he- this stranger, this Brahmin, this man with storm-colored skin and eyes that see too much- he stands apart. And something in me whispers: the fire within my soul will not be quenched beside the weak or the boastful. It will only recognize its equal.

I have had long bristled at the notion of destiny.

Even in my own birth, I had been yoked to a prophecy. Born of fire, born to change the course of a war. As though my life had been written before I could take my first breath. It angered me: what arrogance for others to say why I was born.

My twin, Dhrishtadyumna, bore this burden even heavier. The sages and whispers reduced him to a single blade’s edge: the one born to kill Drona. I hated it: oh how I hated how people looked past his laughter, his kindness, his cleverness, and saw only a prophecy-shaped shadow. 

“My brother is more than your war-script,” I wanted to scream at them all. “He is a prince, a great man, a mirror of my soul- not some sacrificial weapon for your vengeance.”

And yet here I am, paraded as the prize for another man’s prowess. Destiny still claimed me as if I were nothing but a line in its play.

But then, he appeared and I found myself  leaning forward, heart tightening.

The hall fell into hushed anticipation. He lifted the arrow, his hands steady, as if the bow itself waited for his command. With a measured breath, he loosed it: and the impossible target, spinning high above and meant to be struck only through its reflection in the water, shattered under his effortless mastery.

The roar of the crowd rose like thunder, but I heard only the echo of my own breath.

He stood in the midst of it all, calm, self-possessed, as though victory had always been certain. Only quiet radiance.

And in that stillness, my heart betrayed me.

This is the man I was born for.

For the first time, I did not feel like destiny’s pawn. I felt… chosen. Not by prophecy. Not by gods or the wishes of my father. But by something far more terrifying and beautiful: my own heart.

[yumjum414]

BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD!

Once you are given this award you're supposed to paste it in the asks of 8 people who deserve it. If you break the chain nothing happens, but it's sweet to know someone thinks you're beautiful inside and out 🫶🧈✨️

hehe <3

thank you bhadra <3 you too are truly beautiful inside and out ✨🫶

[yumjum414]

When Walls Crack

A scenario where Arjuna, struck not by an enemy’s skill but by treachery- a trusted hand from Hastinapur. Bhishma, grandsire and commander, reaches him first. Amid the chaos of the battlefield, he cradles his grandson.

“I should have seen it coming,” Arjuna whispered, his breath shaky but laced with something almost amused, something that hurt Bhishma more than the blood staining his hands.

This was not supposed to happen. The boy was the best of them: already a legend in his own right. Drona’s most praised student. At his young age, his skill with the bow had made him renowned across all of Aryavart.

Bhishma’s heart twisted painfully. This was not fair. This should never have happened.

“Who?” he demanded, his voice low, almost shaking.

Arjuna closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering his strength. His face was paler than Bhishma had ever seen it.

Then he smiled. His soft, aching smile. Bhishma had never thought he would ever hate a smile on his Arjuna’s face.

“Does it matter?” Arjuna said, voice hoarse but still laced with gentleness. “It happens, doesn’t it? Even the strongest walls crack.”

Bhishma gritted his teeth.

It mattered. It mattered because Arjuna did not deserve this. Bhishma had seen loyalty woven into every fiber of this man’s being. Seen him bleed for his brothers, for his friends, for a kingdom that never truly gave him peace.

Yet ,he still smiled. Even now, when he should be the one comforted.

Bhishma pressed a hand over Arjuna’s wound, trying to stem the terrible, unending flow of red.

Arjuna hissed, but his hand- weak and trembling- came to rest on Bhishma’s arm.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I know this must be… difficult.”

Difficult? The word struck him like an arrow to the heart.

He looked at Arjuna, not as commander, not as Kuru’s grandsire, not as Pitamaha of Hastinapur’s throne.

But as a grandfather- In the pale, blood-streaked face before him, he saw not the famed warrior, but the child who once clung to his arm, who had smeared dust across his pristine white dhoti, who had laughed with sunlight in his voice and called him Father.

Bhishma let out a shuddering breath. “You fool.”

Bhishma had caught him before he could hit the earth. There was an arrow buried deep in his side, a wound that should not have been there.

Not an enemy’s strike, but by a trusted hand.

Bhishma held him closer, as if he could somehow shield him from this world. As if he could take away even a fraction of the pain.

He pressed his forehead against Arjuna’s, voice aching with grief.

“You do not deserve this,” he whispered.

Arjuna’s breath hitched. His fingers clenched weakly over Bhishma’s arm. “None of us do, Pitamah.” 

Bhishma wept. His vision blurred as tears spilled freely. He had seen men fall like stalks of grain, had seen kingdoms burn, had endured betrayals and bloodshed beyond counting. But nothing- nothing- had prepared him for this.

For Arjuna, trembling in his arms. For his breath coming in broken gasps. For the warmth of blood seeping through Bhishma’s hands, unstoppable.

Arjuna’s fingers tightened faintly around his wrist. A silent plea. For strength. For reassurance. For a miracle Bhishma could not give.

“Hold on,” Bhishma choked, the mask of the unshakable shield slipping. 

He shifted, cradling him with aching care. He had carried Arjuna as a boy. Now, he carried him again.

“Pitamaha…” Arjuna rasped, lips ghosting into that same tired, gentle smile.

“Enough,” Bhishma snapped, his heart breaking. “Save your strength, child. The healers-”

But Arjuna only shook his head, weakly. Even now, even as his life slipped away, his thoughts were not of himself.

His long lashes fluttered. His breath hitched. His voice barely carried through the chaos of battle: “Take care of them…”

Bhishma’s chest cracked open. He didn’t even need to say it for Bhishma to understand. 

His brothers… Kunti…. this would break them.

Arjuna’s body sagged, heavy in his arms, his eyes sliding shut.

“No,” Bhishma whispered, fierce, breaking. “Stop. Not you.” His hand shook as he cupped Arjuna’s blood-slick face, as if touch alone could tether him here. “Not like this. You still have so much to do.”

Arjuna did not answer. His breath was shallow, fluttering, slipping away like sand through Bhishma’s fingers.

The battlefield roared around them- clashing steel, the cries of men- but to Bhishma, it was all a standstill. Only the fading heartbeat against his chest.

He had sworn himself to Hastinapur.  He had sworn himself to duty to the throne. But what was a throne, what was a kingdom- when his child bled out in his arms?

Bhishma bent over him, breaking, his tears falling hot onto Arjuna’s face. “Stay, putra,” he whispered, the plea raw, helpless. “Stay, for me.”

But Arjuna’s body grew heavier still.

“For your mother, for your brothers” 

In the blood-soaked battlefield, Bhishma, the unshakable, the eternal son of Ganga, ran with the broken boy in his arms, weeping like a man undone, each step a thunderous echo of grief and desperate helplessness.

[yumjum414]

Heyy

Hru doing?

Heyllooo!!! I’m trying my best to stay afloat 🫠 You?

[dharagalaxias]

Damn 🤧 good luck.

I'm doing alright.

[yumjum414]

I’m doing better, luv <3 I hope you’ve been taking care of yourself too.

[yumjum414]

My coping mechanism for depression? Collecting fandoms like Infinity Stones. Welcome to the pile, Batfam.