I Barely Spoke to My Wife Until We Were Trapped in the Wilderness

The hall of Indraprastha was a cage of gold and marble, its pillars carved with serpents and lotuses, its air thick with sandalwood and the rustle of silk. Arjun sat beside Bhima and Nakula, his back straight, his hands resting on his thighs in the posture of a warrior at rest. The court was gathered for the spring tribute ceremony, a ritual of bows and gifts and carefully worded flattery. He had performed it so many times he could recite the order of offerings in his sleep.

Across the dais, Subhadra stood with the other royal women. Her sari was the color of turmeric, the border embroidered with peacocks. She held her hands folded at her waist, the gold bangles still on her wrists—she had not removed them even when Abhimanyu was small and grabbed at everything. Her hair was pulled back in a tight braid, not a strand out of place. She did not look at him. She never looked at him during these ceremonies. That was part of the protocol: the queen of Indraprastha must appear self-contained, a vessel of alliance, not desire.

He watched her greet a minor princess from Panchala, bending slightly to receive a garland. Her smile was small, correct. He tried to remember the last time she had smiled at him like that—softly, without calculation. He could not. Even in their bedchamber, her expressions were measured, as if she were always being observed. Perhaps she was. Perhaps she had learned to live as though the world were always watching.

A herald announced the gift of horses from the king of Kashi. Arjun shifted his gaze to the animals—black-maned, high-stepped—but his peripheral vision held her. The way her throat moved when she swallowed. The way her fingers tightened briefly on the edge of her veil when the horses neighed. She disliked horses. He had learned that only after their wedding, when he had offered to teach her to ride. She had declined, politely, and he had not insisted. That was the first time he understood that being married did not mean being known.

He felt the familiar ache then—not sharp, but dull, like a bruise that never quite healed. It was the ache of looking at someone who was his and not his, who had given him a son and yet remained a stranger. He had married her because Krishna asked it, and because the Yadavas were needed. She had married him because her brother wished it, and because a princess did not refuse. They had both done their duty. They continued to do it, impeccably.

The herald called for the next offering. Arjun straightened his shoulders and fixed his eyes forward, the perfect prince once more.

The ceremony ended with the usual distribution of alms and the ringing of bronze bells. Arjun left the hall before the final conch sounded, slipping out through a side passage that led to the royal apartments. He needed to remove the heavy court earrings, to wash the sandalwood from his neck, to breathe.

Their wing was quiet at this hour. The servants moved on soft feet, and the only sound was the distant splash of water in the courtyard fountain. He rounded the corner toward Abhimanyu’s small chamber and stopped.

Subhadra sat on the low stone window-seat, her back to the light. Abhimanyu stood between her knees, his small hands on her shoulders. She was braiding his hair—not tightly, as she did her own, but loosely, the way children liked. Her mouth was close to his ear, and she was speaking so softly Arjun could not catch the words. The boy laughed, a small, breathy sound, and leaned back against her chest. Her arms closed around him automatically, as if he were still an infant.

Arjun had never heard that tone from her. It was not the voice she used with servants, or with Draupadi, or even with Krishna when he visited. It was lower, unguarded, almost sleepy. He felt suddenly that he was watching something private, like a deer drinking. He almost stepped back.

Then Abhimanyu saw him. “Father!” He wriggled free and ran, bare feet slapping the marble. “Mother says you shot seven arrows through one ring at the age of seven. Is that true?”

Arjun looked down at the boy’s eager face. The eyes were his—dark, slightly long at the outer corners—but the mouth was Subhadra’s, full and decisive. He touched the top of Abhimanyu’s head. “Six. The seventh struck the rim and split it.”

Abhimanyu’s mouth rounded. “Still! Will you show me the Gandiva? Just to look. I won’t touch.”

“It is strung too heavy for you.” The answer came automatically, the same words he had used the last three times. He felt Subhadra’s gaze settle on him, steady, unreadable. He glanced at her. She had risen, her hands now folded again at her waist, the mother-voice gone.

“I could draw a lighter bow,” Abhimanyu pressed. “Mother says I must begin soon. Uncle Sahadeva says a prince who delays is like a fruit that ripens too late and falls rotten.”

Arjun heard the echo of Subhadra’s phrasing in the proverb. “You will begin when your shoulders can bear the string without bruising,” he said. “Ask me then.”

The boy’s face fell. He mumbled assent and wandered to the window, humming under his breath, already chasing another thought.

Subhadra stepped forward. “His tutor proposes the Puranas after the monsoon. I thought the Ramayana first—less war, more duty.”

“He is Yadava on your side. He will hear war soon enough.” Arjun kept his voice level. “Let him have the stories of kings who keep their word.”

She inclined her head, the small gesture she used in court. “As you decide.”

The silence stretched. He could hear Abhimanyu tapping the window lattice, counting beats. Arjun’s palms felt empty. He wanted to say—what? That he had noticed the boy’s left shoulder sat lower when he drew a reed bow? That he had carved him a practice arrow months ago and never given it?

Instead he said, “Evening drills begin at sunset. Send him to the yard.”

“I will.” She turned away, already bending to gather the scattered hair ribbons, her back a straight, bright line.

He left before the ribbons were all picked up, the door curtain falling softly behind him like a drawn breath.

The messenger’s sandals left damp prints on the marble, each step a small betrayal of the forest he had ridden through. Arjun watched the scroll pass from those clay-stained fingers to Yudhishthira’s clean ones. The wax broke with a soft snap, like a bone reset. His brother’s eyes moved along the lines, pupils dilating the way they did when odds were counted.

“Duryodhana invites us,” Yudhishthira said, voice even, “to a friendly game. The stakes—” He paused, looked up, met Arjun’s stare. “—are left to our discretion.”

Discretion. A court word. It meant nothing here.

Arjun’s tongue found the back of his teeth. Across the hall, Subhadra’s sari border had shifted half an inch, exposing the hollow of her throat. He saw it bob once—swallowing—and the guard she wore like armour cracked. For that blink, she looked directly at him. The message travelled between them faster than any courier: We are about to be destroyed.

Yudhishthira folded the parchment. “We leave at dawn.”

Formalities dissolved. Servants appeared with lamps though sunset was an hour away. Arjun remained planted, hearing plans form in low voices—how many horses, which road, whether the queen-mothers would accompany. Words floated past: honour, precedent, elder’s blessing. None touched him.

Subhadra moved first. She crossed the floor, the sound of her anklets swallowed by the thick weave of carpets. Abhimanyu waited at the threshold, small hand in hers. She did not look back.

He followed moments later, distance measured by heartbeats. Their corridor smelled of burned sesame oil from the evening lamps. She had already disappeared inside the nursery; the door curtain swayed, still settling. He lifted it.

Inside, dusk light fell through latticed stone, striping the floor and her forearms. She was packing. Not clothes—those would be done by maids—but small, impossible things: the reed arrow he had carved, a copper toy chariot missing one wheel, a palm-leaf booklet of bird names Abhimanyu had collected. Her fingers shook enough that the pages rustled.

“He can’t take that,” Arjun heard himself say. “It will cut his fingers.”

“They are only leaves,” she answered, not turning. “They weigh nothing.”

“He will cry when they tear.”

“Then he will learn what can be replaced.” Her voice held no scolding, only fact. She tied the bundle with a thread from her own loom, knot neat, final.

Arjun stepped closer. The air between them was warm, dense with milk and child-sleep. “Subhadra.”

She faced him. Light caught the side of her cheek, showed a muscle clenching, unclenching. Her eyes were dry, wide. Waiting.

He spoke the length of one breath. “Whatever happens tomorrow, he stays with Krishna’s envoys. I have arranged it.”

A nod. Then, lower: “And me?”

“You are his mother.”

“That is not a post.”

“It is the only one I can guarantee.”

Her chin lifted. “Then guarantee nothing. Promise instead.”

The distinction struck him like a physical blow. Promises could be broken; guarantees were only words. He lifted his hand, paused, set it on her shoulder. Cloth, skin, bone. She did not flinch. He felt the small motion of her breathing, the heat of it through silk. His thumb moved once, involuntary, tracing the ridge of muscle that had carried their son, held court, borne silence. He became aware of his own pulse, thick in his wrists.

“I promise,” he said, the words strange, intimate, “to bring you back a kingdom, or not return at all.”

Her eyes closed then, opened. Something passed across them—relief, perhaps, or resignation dressed as courage. She placed her hand over his, pressed once, hard enough that the small bones shifted. Then she stepped back, the contact broken, and returned to her task.

He left before the bundle was finished, the door curtain falling behind him like a drawn breath.