Dhi

To Heal

His legs instinctively carried him towards his safe recluse. Once the smell of horses, hay and manure hit his nose then only did he stop. He stood there panting even though his legs had not moved in any more than a brisk pace. The late afternoon breeze wafted over his sweaty skin.

The patrolling guards glanced at him worriedly. Ignoring them, Nakul walked towards the leftmost stable. He pushed open the door and was welcomed by enthusiastic neighs.

"Hello friend," he murmured as his palm stroked the all too familiar skewbald markings of Ojas who in turn nuzzled against Nakul.

There was hesitant shuffling near the entrance of the stable door followed by whispers.

"You may enter," Nakul called out; a bit peeved on having people so close when he wanted some seclusion.

A head peaked in before stepping inside with his companion. It was Nilay, one of the caretakers and his teenaged son Akarsh who usually came to help his old father with his work.

Nakul looked at them expectantly. Gauging their discomfort, he realized he hadn't been able to mask his irritation at all.

"Forgive us for intruding, Rajkumar. We were here to do the daily grooming," Nilay bowed low and nudged his son to do the same.

Nakul shook his head. "It is quite alright. But I wish to do it myself today. So, leave me be."

Both of them hurriedly left. Nakul paid them no mind. He picked up the brush from the corner of the stable and let himself get lost in the familiar motions of brushing Ojas' mane. His friend remained quiet as if sensing his somber mood. It was easier to tackle his mess of emotions this way.

The painting refused to leave his mind and so did his wife's words. They coaxed faded memories of his initial days in the palace of Hastinapur. He had heard it from anonymous dasis, felt their pitying glances, their unwanted fake concerns.

'...poor boys. Maharani Kunti would probably send them away. Didn't you hear Maharaj Shalya has offered to take them?

'Poor Rani Madri, such a beauty gone in a wisp of fickle desire. But what choice did she have? She would be ostracized and her sons would grow up only to shoulder her shame. Good thing, she did what she did...'

'Maharaj Pandu wouldn't have died if it weren't for that sly woman. Poor Maharani, so alone and helpless... hush, Rajkumar is approaching...'

He had heard them all. He had also spent a better part of his childhood wanting to unhear them. Mata Kunti would tuck him in and Deva behind her; scold him for roaming around unsupervised. But what could he do? Deva would disappear in libraries; his twin was now more inclined to listen to Jyesth's words, to Pitamah, to Kakashree Vidur and suddenly his brother didn't have time for him.

The palace and the people were imposing. The silks felt uncomfortable, the rooms too suffocating, the beds too soft, the ornaments too rough. His cousins with their dismissive eyes made it clear they didn't belong; weren't wanted. As if he and his brother's were not worth another glance. Home was under the open sky, fresh air along with the morning and evening chants of sages. Home was in Pitashree amused smiles, in his teachings, on Maa's lap listening to her pointing out the various constellations, in Mata Kunti's free laughter and scoldings, in them running freely through the forests. It was simple, safe and happy.