23.
"Have you looked at the gifts from Hastinapur and Indraprastha?
" one of the older ministers exclaimed beneath his breath to the man beside him, both lingering near the western receiving chambers where the ceremonial offerings for Dushala's Simantha continued arriving since dawn in seemingly endless processions. "They have truly outdone themselves."
The second minister gave a low sound of agreement while staring toward the rows of opened chests stretching across the polished marble floors beneath heavy royal guard. "Hastinapur sent grandeur," he murmured thoughtfully. "But Indraprastha... ah, Indraprastha sent heart."
And truly—
the difference could be seen immediately.
The receiving hall itself looked transformed beneath the sheer abundance of offerings.
Winter sunlight poured through towering carved jharokha windows in long pale shafts that illuminated drifting incense smoke and reflected against silver platters overflowing with saffron sweets, jewels, embroidered fabrics, sandalwood carvings, medicinal herbs for childbirth, gold-threaded shawls, pearl ornaments, ivory toys, silver utensils for the child, and ceremonial vessels engraved with blessings from royal priests.
Servants moved constantly through the enormous hall carrying trays in careful succession while palace scribes sat cross-legged near the central platform recording every offering onto long scrolls of parchment.
The gifts from Hastinapur were magnificent in the way royal gifts often were—heavy with wealth, prestige, and political correctness.
Rare ivory from Gandhara.
Gold ornaments crafted for the unborn child.
Heavy Kuru silks lined with pearls.
Ceremonial weapons miniature enough for symbolic blessing rituals.
Everything regal.
Everything appropriate.
But the gifts from Indraprastha and Dwarka—
those felt alive.
Personal.
Devasena stood near one of the lower platforms watching attendants carefully unfold an enormous length of midnight blue silk embroidered with silver peacocks so intricate they almost appeared ready to move beneath the winter light.
Beside her, Shona looked close to collapsing from excitement.
"Rajkumari," she whispered dramatically, clutching the edge of Devasena's sleeve, "I have never seen embroidery this fine in my life."
Ruti meanwhile stood frozen before another opened sandalwood chest filled entirely with tiny garments for the unborn child.
Soft cream fabrics.
Little silver anklets.
Protective talismans stitched carefully into the hems.
Tiny embroidered lotuses worked imperfectly by hand.
Ruti's expression melted instantly.
"Oh..." she breathed helplessly. "These were stitched personally."
And they were.
Devasena could tell immediately.
Royal artisans did not leave uneven threadwork.
One sleeve carried slightly crooked pearl embroidery.
Another had lotus petals sewn too tightly together.
Human hands.
Loving hands.
Dushala, seated nearby against embroidered cushions because the later months of pregnancy exhausted her quickly now, pressed her fingers against her lips when another attendant unveiled a delicate silver cradle ornament strung with tiny bells and moon-shaped charms.
Her eyes brightened instantly.
"Subhadra sent those," she whispered at once.
Devasena glanced toward her. "How can you tell?"
A soft laugh escaped Dushala immediately. "Because that girl spent her entire childhood tying bells onto everything she owned. Curtains. Horses. Veils. Once even Bhaiya's sword."
Shona gasped in delight. "What happened?"
"Krishna laughed."
"And Balram?"
"Threatened to throw both her and the bells into the sea."
Even Devasena laughed softly at the image.
Another attendant approached carefully carrying a broad lacquered box lined in velvet.
"For Rajkumari Dushala," he announced respectfully. "Sent from Maharani Draupadi of Indraprastha."
The entire cluster quieted slightly at that.
Dushala straightened immediately while the box was opened before her.
Inside rested the most exquisite maternity veil Devasena had ever seen—deep crimson silk threaded entirely with delicate gold lotuses blooming outward from the center like sunlight spreading across water.
Folded beneath it were handwritten blessings tied carefully with blue silk ribbons along with small packets of herbs and oils traditionally gifted only between women of deep familiarity.
Not formality.
Care.
Dushala touched the folded letters gently with trembling fingertips.
"She packed these herself," she whispered softly, emotion thickening her voice.
"How can you tell that too?" Shona asked immediately.
Dushala smiled faintly without looking up. "Because Panchali folds letters like battle strategies."
That earned startled laughter from nearly everyone nearby.
Even Devasena's lips curved despite herself.
One of the ministers stepped forward then carrying a ceremonial parchment sealed with Indraprastha's royal insignia.
"A written blessing from Maharani Draupadi and the Pandavas," he announced.
The hall quieted fully now except for distant sounds of rain beginning softly against the outer palace terraces.
He unrolled the scroll carefully before reading aloud:
"May the child born into your arms inherit courage without cruelty, strength without arrogance, and love that never teaches fear."
Silence followed afterward.
Not empty silence.
Full silence.
The kind words created when sincerity enters a room too gently to interrupt and too deeply to ignore.
Dushala lowered her gaze almost immediately afterward, one hand drifting protectively over her stomach while her eyes visibly glistened beneath the winter light.
Bhima had probably insisted upon something emotional.
Arjuna had definitely approved it.
And Draupadi—
Devasena could somehow feel her presence within those words entirely.
Strong.
Tender.
Uncompromising.
Then more gifts from Dwarka were unveiled.
Pearl-threaded blankets embroidered with ocean waves.
Miniature gold flutes tied beside protective charms.
Soft blue silks carrying the faint scent of sandalwood and sea salt even after traveling across kingdoms.
One chest contained tiny silver bracelets shaped like conch shells.
Another held children's story manuscripts illustrated personally by palace artists for the unborn child.
And somewhere near the bottom of one velvet-lined box—
Subhadra had hidden sweets.
Actual sweets.
Wrapped terribly.
With a note.
Dushala burst into helpless laughter the moment it was discovered.
"What does it say?" Ruti asked eagerly.
Still laughing, Dushala read aloud:
"If the elders become emotional, eat these secretly first."
Even Devasena covered her smile briefly at that.
The receiving hall softened afterward.
Not quieter.
Warmer.
Because affection could be seen.
Not merely spoken.
It existed in details.
In crooked embroidery stitched impatiently by familiar hands.
In hidden sweets tucked beneath ceremonial gifts.
In silver bells chosen because someone remembered childhood habits.
In blessings written like prayers instead of politics.
And standing amidst all of it beneath drifting incense smoke and pale winter light, Devasena suddenly found her thoughts betraying her once more.
Because against her own will—
she wondered what Krishna himself had chosen among these offerings.
Which things had his hands touched before sending them?
Which gifts had he laughed at?
Which had he silently approved?
Would he remember details others forgot the way Subhadra did?
Would he—
Devasena abruptly turned away toward the rain gathering softly against the carved palace windows.
Enough.
This was becoming dangerous now.
And as though the earlier gifts had not already overwhelmed the palace enough, the royal steward quietly informed them soon afterward that the gifts displayed within the western receiving hall were not even all that Hastinapur had sent.
There were six carriages in total.
Six.
The information alone caused visible commotion among the ministers standing nearby.
"Six?" one of them repeated under his breath in disbelief while watching another set of attendants struggle beneath the weight of a gold-bound sandalwood chest. "Are they preparing for a Simantha or a coronation?"
"Hastinapur has only one daughter," another replied knowingly. "And this is her first child."
That answer alone explained everything.
The remaining carriages were opened gradually throughout the afternoon because cataloguing the gifts themselves had become an ordeal.
One carried only garments.
Not ordinary garments.
Winter shawls lined with Kashmiri wool softer than breath itself, silks threaded with real silver, delicate maternity veils embroidered by hand, tiny ceremonial outfits for the unborn child in shades of ivory and crimson, and enough fine fabric to clothe an entire royal nursery.
Another carriage carried medicinal herbs and oils gathered from kingdoms across Aryavarta specifically for childbirth and recovery, each carefully labeled by royal physicians from Hastinapur.
One contained jewels.
So many jewels that even the older attendants who had spent their lives within royal households looked momentarily blinded when the chests were opened beneath the winter light.
Pearls.
Uncut rubies.
Moonstones.
Diamond-studded anklets no larger than Devasena's palm.
Tiny gold bangles made for infant wrists.
Shona looked one second away from fainting directly into a tray of saffron sweets.
"Rajkumari," she whispered weakly to Devasena, "if this child sneezes, gold may fall out instead."
Even Devasena laughed softly at that.
But it was the sixth carriage that silenced the hall completely.
Unlike the others, it bore no elaborate display of wealth.
No excessive decoration.
Only deep dark cloth lined with the sigil of Hastinapur's inner royal household.
And immediately—
everyone understood.
"Maharani Gandhari's personal offerings," the steward announced respectfully.
Dushala straightened at once.
From where Devasena stood beside her, she watched something soften instantly across Dushala's face even before the carriage was opened, as though merely hearing her mother's name had reached some exhausted homesickness she had been quietly suppressing for weeks.
The gifts inside were simple compared to the others.
Painfully personal.
Old sandalwood incense Dushala used since childhood.
Protective charms tied with sacred thread.
Soft cotton garments meant for late pregnancy comfort rather than royal display.
Her favorite oil blends.
Traditional remedies prepared personally within Gandhari's own chambers.
Things only mothers remembered.
Things only daughters recognized.
And finally—
a letter.
The moment Dushala saw the familiar handwriting, her composure cracked almost immediately.
"Oh no," Devasena murmured under her breath.
Too late.
Dushala had already opened it.
The hall gradually quieted while she read silently, her eyes moving slower and slower down the parchment until tears gathered visibly along her lashes.
Pregnancy had already left her emotions dangerously fragile these days.
This destroyed whatever restraint remained.
A soft broken laugh escaped her first.
Then tears.
Actual tears.
"Didi?" Devasena moved beside her immediately.
Dushala shook her head weakly while trying to continue reading through blurred vision before finally pressing the parchment tightly against her chest.
"She says..." Her voice trembled helplessly. "'No daughter should spend her first childbirth away from the hands that raised her.'"
Silence settled instantly across the chamber.
Even the attendants lowered their eyes respectfully.
Dushala laughed through tears again, softer this time. "She says she misses oiling my hair herself because no one parts it properly."
That nearly broke Devasena too.
Because suddenly Dushala no longer looked like a married princess of Hastinapur.
She looked like someone's daughter.
Someone's child.
Someone who missed home.
"I want to go," Dushala declared abruptly, wiping tears furiously despite more appearing instantly afterward. "I want to go to Hastinapur."
Dyumsena, who had entered midway through the reading and now stood nearby still dressed in court silks darkened faintly by winter rain, answered without even a breath of hesitation.
"Then we go."
No discussion.
No politics.
No delay.
Simply certainty.
Dushala blinked at him emotionally. "Truly?"
Dyumsena looked almost offended by the question. "Dushala, if you wish to be there, then you will be there."
"The kingdom—"
"The kingdom will survive without me for several weeks."
From the far side of the receiving hall, King Veerendra finally let out a deep knowing laugh, arms folded comfortably across his chest while he observed his son with entirely too much amusement.
"Leave the boy alone," he announced warmly to the room at large. "A husband becomes completely useless once his wife starts crying during pregnancy."
Queen Vaidhei turned slowly toward him.
"You speak as though you behaved any differently."
King Veerendra looked deeply dignified for exactly one second before several older ministers immediately failed to suppress their laughter.
"Maharaj," one of them coughed politely, "with respect, you once abandoned an entire council gathering because Maharani desired mangoes during monsoon."
"There were no mangoes available," King Veerendra defended immediately.
"You threatened three kingdoms."
"They had mangoes."
The chamber erupted softly into startled laughter.
Even Dushala forgot her tears briefly.
Queen Vaidhei merely shook her head with the long-suffering patience of a woman who had spent years tolerating one deeply devoted husband.
"You fainted during Devasena's birth," she added calmly.
Devasena closed her eyes instantly.
"Mata," she groaned.
King Veerendra looked betrayed. "Why must old wounds be reopened publicly?"
"Because you are advising Dyumsena as though you possess wisdom."
"I possess experience."
"You possess panic."
At that, even Dyumsena finally laughed quietly beneath his breath.
And somehow the warmth inside the hall deepened afterward, grief and affection tangling together beneath winter sunlight and incense smoke until the enormous receiving chamber no longer felt formal at all.
Then Queen Vaidhei turned fully toward Dushala, her voice gentler now.
"If you permit it," she said softly, "I would like to accompany you myself."
Dushala blinked immediately. "Mata, you do not need to trouble yourself—"
"It is no trouble."
The queen stepped closer, adjusting one loose strand of hair behind Dushala's ear with such maternal instinctive tenderness that even the attendants nearby softened visibly at the sight.
"No daughter carrying this family's child should travel feeling alone," she continued quietly.
Dushala's eyes filled again instantly.
And before emotions could entirely overwhelm the room once more—
another voice interrupted firmly.
"I am also coming."
Everyone turned.
Devasena stood with arms folded now, expression completely immovable despite the fact Shona already looked unsurprised beside her.
"No arguments," she added immediately.
Dyumsena sighed in defeat on instinct alone. "Devasena—"
"No."
"There will be guards."
"And I will still be coming."
"You have responsibilities here."
"And Dushala has me."
That answer arrived so quickly, so naturally, that even Dyumsena stopped arguing afterward.
Because there was no winning once Devasena's voice entered that particular tone.
Dushala looked at her then—not dramatically, not tearfully, just quietly overwhelmed—and something painfully grateful softened across her entire face.
"You would truly come?" she asked softly.
Devasena looked almost offended.
"Obviously."
And somehow—
that simple answer felt warmer than every jewel, carriage, blessing, and royal offering filling the palace halls combined.