Viraah

~*~|| Reminiscence ||~*~

Dwarka [Six months ago]

"My God! Abhi, we are practising. This isn't war. Take a breath, child."

Pradyumna yelled from where he had been standing at the side, a few meters away from the clearing where the Princes were having their daily training session. 

Or in Prince Abhimanyu's case, his second session, which he took with his comrades. His day usually started at dawn when he would come back to the arena and practise his archery unfailingly for at least a prahar before everyone. 

The early morning darkness helped him prep for searching to hit his target at dark. After all, he had promised himself that he would learn how to fight, just as good in complete darkness, as he did, in daylight. 

"Your father can fight with a blindfold on, if need be. His aim never goes astray. Be it day or night. Very few warriors have managed to master that technique, my dear."

His favourite uncle's encouraging words from all those years ago had gotten stuck in young Abhi's mind and the latter had promised himself that he would master this skill of Gandhivadhari as well. 

Another one from his father's astronomically long list of talents. 

Sometimes Abhimanyu wondered when Arjun had gotten the time to master a million of his exclusively incomparable war techniques between administrative work of a Prince of the biggest Empire of Aryavarta and the duties of being the Commander of Indraprastha's army and running around in forests following rigorous penance for completing his exile and receiving a million monikers from everyone because of his continuous conquests and exploits. 

Who was Arjun?

A man, a myth, a legend? A warrior? A demigod? A machine?

All he remembered of the great Sabyasachi were blurred images of a tall, ivory clad, wiry figure whose voice was deep, smooth and incredibly gentle. 

"Hold it straight sweetheart..."

He had massive hands, which he would use to correct the way Abhi would hold his toy bow, while pretending to get defeated by him when he was a toddler. 

Calloused with numerous scars from bow strings and sword fights and maybe collecting twigs and thatch for mud houses in forests. 

He has forgotten his father's fragrance. 

He knew his mother had one of Arjun's heavier angavastrams which she used like a shawl occasionally. He also knew that she hasn't washed it even once. But he had never dared to touch it. 

It felt too sacred. 

Like the mere act of grazing within the garment's vicinity would be tantamount to sacrilege. 

Being the son of a man who has been famously equated to the likes of the King of Gods himself was no easy feat. The thought of it felt like a fever dream.