The morning of Hastinapur bloomed with a joy it hadn't known in decades. Flowers were draped across balconies, anklets rang through corridors, and every courtyard echoed with laughter. Peace had settled over the city, but something more delicate, more sacred, now fluttered in the air—celebration.
It all began days ago, when Subhadra, with her mischievous smile and a sly glance, had leaned toward Kunti during the evening prayers.
"Ma… did anyone tell you about Vrushali?"
Kunti blinked. "Who is Vrushali?"
Subhadra grinned. "The woman bhrata Karna loves."
That night, Kunti had not slept.
She sat in the silence of her chamber, listening to the whisper of the wind through the stone windows. Her thoughts wandered—to the child she had abandoned, to the man he had become, to the wife he had never had the right to dream of. Until now.
Morning found her outside Karna's chamber.
"I want to meet her," she said gently. "Bring her here. As my daughter."
Karna had never bowed so quickly in his life.
---
He returned to his old home, not with a chariot of gold or guards behind him, but alone—just Karna, Radheya, their son.
Radha wept when she saw him. "We heard... all of it. But you're still ours."
Adhirath said nothing, simply rested a hand on his son's shoulder.
Karna knelt at their feet. "You made me a king in your love before anyone else knew who I was. I've come now… to ask your blessing."
That evening, Karna waited under the old peepal tree by the river—the same place where Vrushali had once scolded him for challenging a prince.
She arrived quietly, dressed in simple blue.
He stood. "You always saw me, even when the world turned its face away."
Vrushali looked at him, a thousand emotions flickering in her gaze. "And you still carry that same ache in your eyes."
He stepped closer. "Come with me. Let me show the world who has always held my heart."
She smiled—and for once, the ache faded.
---
The day of the wedding turned Hastinapur into a land of gold.
Mandaps woven with lotus and marigold rose in the palace courtyard. Dhols beat in rhythm with dancing feet. Women sang songs of love and fortune, while little ones ran around with flower baskets and mischief in their eyes.
Vrushali, dressed in deep red silk laced with gold, looked like a queen long before she would be one. Her eyes were shy, her lips curved in serenity. Draupadi whispered, "She is beautiful."
Subhadra giggled, nudging her, "So is the groom."
Karna arrived with the sun behind him, his armour gone, but his dignity brighter than any crown.
The ceremony was divine. As Vrushali and Karna walked the seven sacred circles around the fire, all those watching felt something shift—like fate was being rewritten, this time with gentler hands.
After the rituals, Karna and Vrushali bent to touch the feet of elders.
Bhishma blessed them with a full heart. Kunti kissed Vrushali's forehead. Krishna said only one thing: "So it begins."
Vidur stepped forward then, his eyes sharp but warm. "This union strengthens the realm. And so, I propose the Rajsuya Yagna. Let Hastinapur honour its king-to-be."
The crowd murmured in awe.
But Parth… Parth heard something else.
A whisper.
Not from the wind, nor from the earth—but from time itself.
He turned his head slightly, as if drawn by an old scent. And in the silence behind his heartbeat, he heard her.
"Are you ready, my Parth?"
His breath caught.
The river called once more.
But not for war.
For home.
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🌸 "A Bride for the Sun" 🌸
— for Karna and Vrushali
In silken gold and crimson thread,
She walked where kings and sages tread,
Her eyes, two stars in twilight's dome,
And in her smile—his heart found home.
No crown he wore, yet all could see,
The sun bowed down to royalty.
For in his arms, as vows were sworn,
A world was healed, a life reborn.
Radha wept with joy and pride,
Adhirath stood by her side.
The boy they raised with trembling hands,
Now held a kingdom in golden sands.
Subhadra cheered, her laughter light,
As petals danced in morning light.
And Kunti, watching from afar,
Saw in Vrushali her fallen star.
The drums resounded, the halls grew bright,
With hopes stitched deep in garlands white.
Yet far away, beneath the sky,
A voice called soft — a lullaby.
"Parth," it hummed, through breeze and blue,
"Your path bends now — as all paths do."
He turned his head, his breath held tight…
For destiny speaks not in day —
…but night.