Chapter 11: Her First Word Was Grief

The cave was golden with the first light of morning.

Snow melted slowly outside, forming streams that trickled through the forest floor. Inside, warmth clung to the stones — from the fire, from breath, from something far more human.

Bhima hadn’t slept.

He sat upright against the cave wall, one arm curved protectively around Agnika, still cradled to his chest.

She had cried in her sleep for a long time after the dream — not loud cries, but quiet sobs, like she was mourning someone she’d never met.

He had rocked her slowly.

He had whispered nothing.

And then, at dawn, she had finally gone still — her head tucked under his chin, one small hand fisted in the edge of his shawl.

But as the sun rose, she stirred again.

Her lashes fluttered.

A soft whimper escaped her lips.

Bhima looked down and whispered, “It’s alright, little one. I’m here.”

She looked up at him, face still damp with dried tears.

And then, in the quietest, most broken voice—

> “Ba… ba…”

The sound was fragile.

Bhima blinked.

“…What?”

Agnika sniffled again. Her little lip trembled. And again:

> “Ba…ba…”

She clung to him tightly, burying her face in his chest.

---

The cave went dead silent.

Yudhishthir dropped his prayer beads.

Draupadi turned around so sharply she nearly spilled water from the bowl she was holding.

Nakula stood frozen mid-step, holding a carved wooden toy.

Sahadeva mouthed, “Did she just—?”

Even Arjuna, standing at the cave mouth returning from morning meditation, slowly turned his head.

Bhima’s eyes had gone wide.

“Agnika… say it again.”

The baby hiccuped softly.

And again — voice tiny, shaky, full of ache:

> “Baba…”

---

Draupadi’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Her first word,” she breathed. “She said it to him.”

Nakula’s face twisted. “After all we did—after we took her to the woods, fed her mango pulp—he gets ‘baba’?”

“She’s biased,” Sahadeva muttered. “Bhima doesn’t even wipe her nose properly.”

“She called me Baba,” Bhima repeated, still stunned. “Did you all hear that?”

“She probably meant to say ‘banana,’” Nakula snapped.

“She was crying like she lost something,” Sahadeva huffed. “I held her for an hour last night!”

Arjuna chuckled quietly. “Jealousy doesn’t suit warriors.”

But even he looked moved.

There was something about that word.

Something more than just affection.

> It was trust.

It was grief made safe.

It was recognition.

Draupadi came and gently touched Agnika’s head. The baby clung tighter to Bhima, still softly whispering “ba…ba…” between sniffles.

Draupadi smiled. “She dreamed of someone he lost. And now she’s chosen him.”

Yudhishthir nodded slowly. “It’s not just a word. It’s a memory.”

---

Bhima, still holding her, pressed his lips to her tiny forehead.

> “Then I swear to you, Agnika…

If I must carry the weight of being your ‘baba’ —

I will never let the world break you the way it broke me.”

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And behind them, the fire flared just once, as if some unseen spirit — maybe a son once lost — had smiled.

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👶 End of Chapter 11