Chapter 6: The One She Pointed At

Morning came with a pale sun and a sky full of silence.

The snow had stopped.

The forest looked calm.

But inside the cave, Draupadi’s arms ached from holding Agnika all night. Not from weight — but from the way the child had clung to her, even in sleep, as if letting go would mean losing her forever.

Agnika hadn’t made a sound since that terrifying cry.

She hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t babbled.

She just… watched Draupadi, with wide, teary eyes. Always watching. Always reaching.

Like a ghost of a memory she couldn’t speak.

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Bhima had tried to tickle her in the morning — made funny faces, shook his braid at her.

But Agnika didn’t giggle.

She only looked at Draupadi again, reaching out quietly.

Yudhishthir had said nothing, but kept glancing at the child as if the silence itself had meaning.

The twins avoided it altogether, whispering among themselves.

And Draupadi… was tired of guessing.

So she carried the child outside, into the gentle sunlight that peeked through the trees. She sat under a large fig tree and wrapped them both in a shawl.

She stroked Agnika’s soft cheek and said softly,

> “Tell me, little flame… what did you see?”

Agnika blinked slowly.

> “Did someone hurt you in the dream?”

No response.

> “Did you fall? Were you alone?”

Agnika’s lip quivered.

Draupadi's voice grew gentler.

> “Did someone try to take me from you?”

The child’s eyes filled with tears again.

Draupadi held her closer. “You can’t speak yet… I know. But you can show me, can’t you?”

Agnika hesitated.

Then… slowly… her little hand lifted.

She pointed her tiny finger.

Right at Draupadi.

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Draupadi froze.

> “Me?” she whispered.

Agnika didn’t nod. Didn’t smile.

She just looked at her — heartbreakingly.

As if remembering something Draupadi hadn’t told her.

As if mourning something that hadn't even happened yet.

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Draupadi closed her eyes, her throat tightening.

> “What did you see, child? What part of me did your dream take from you?”

She kissed Agnika’s forehead, whispering,

> “I promise you… whatever you saw… it won’t come to pass. Not while I hold you.”

But somewhere deep in her heart, Draupadi knew:

Agnika wasn’t pointing at the mother in her.

She was pointing at the woman — the one who once stood alone in a court of kings, surrounded by shame and silence.

The one even the gods could not forget.

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Back inside the cave, Bhima looked up when Draupadi returned, Agnika still clinging to her neck.

“Did she tell you anything?” he asked.

Draupadi sat beside him, her voice quiet.

> “She pointed at me.”

Bhima’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

Draupadi looked into the fire.

> “It means… the dream was never about her.”

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And far off in the forest, where Arjuna knelt before an ancient tree, his eyes opened sharply.

As if someone had whispered his name

from a memory he didn’t know still lived.

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