The line between servant and brother is thinner than most think.

  It’s not made of blood. It’s made of time.

  And time, when shared under the same sun, over the same ground, in sweat and bruises and silence—it changes things.

  But it never erases them.

  Not in Hastinapur.

  Not in the world we lived in.

  A Rhythm Between WarriorsIt began with routine. It always does.

  Wake at the bell. Stretch. Drill. Sharpen weapons. Fetch water. Fetch more.

  At first, we were invisible. Not in a cruel way—just expected.

  We were the silent watchers. The aides who handed over spears, who reset the targets, who refilled the buckets and carried the bruises no one else noticed.

  But training does strange things to people.

  You take enough beatings beside someone, and suddenly you’re not a ghost anymore.

  You’re a reflection.

  That’s what started to happen between us—Avyakta, Chaitra, Bhal, Riksha—and the Pandavas.

  Familiar BondsChaitra and Nakul became mirror images during footwork sessions. They began exchanging little gestures, mock-compints, even a ugh here and there when Drona wasn’t watching. Nakul began trusting Chaitra to correct his form before it became fwed. That kind of trust is a currency.

  Bhal and Bhima started sparring harder. Not pyfully. Not casually. But with an edge. Bhal had bulk now. Strength. And Bhima—who rarely respected anyone less than him in size—grunted once after a match and said, “That was real.”

  Riksha and Sahadeva became a team without ever announcing it. Sahadeva began leaving open-ended riddles when training ended, and Riksha would answer them the next morning. No boasting. Just quiet understanding.

  And I, still silent, still watchful—began receiving nods from Yudhishthira without prompt. And once, during a bow drill, Arjuna let me hold the bow.

  Only for a second.

  Only because I had handed it to him ten thousand times.

  But still—he let me feel its weight.

  That was how the line began to blur—not with decrations, but with quiet acknowledgments.

  When Duryodhana NoticedThe day the tension began, it was barely visible. Just a look.

  Duryodhana was seated on a bench with Dushasana, wrapping his wrist in linen, when he saw it—Bhima and Bhal finishing a duel.

  Bhima cpped Bhal’s shoulder. Bhal didn’t flinch.

  Duryodhana watched Chaitra correct Nakul’s stance. Watched Riksha and Sahadeva ugh over something scribbled in the dust.

  Watched Arjuna toss me a water pouch, wordlessly.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “They think they’re brothers now?” he said.

  Dushasana didn’t answer.

  “This was supposed to keep the aides beneath them. Useful, obedient. Now look.”

  Still no response.

  Then:

  “They’re learning the same moves. They’re being taught. Not just used.”

  That night, a message was sent to Drona.

  And the next morning, we were summoned.

  The ConfrontationWe stood in a semi-circle. No weapons. Hands clean. Tunics fresh.

  Drona sat beneath the stone archway of the southern yard. Duryodhana stood beside him.

  The Pandavas were not present.

  Drona spoke slowly.

  “I have heard reports. That the aides assigned to the princes have taken liberties. That they are imitating drills. Repeating movements they were never meant to learn.”

  We stood still.

  “That they believe themselves not as aides—but as equals.”

  The silence was heavy.

  Then I stepped forward.

  Avyakta’s Answer“Respected Acharya,” I said, “we have not acted beyond our pce.”

  Duryodhana scoffed. “You train when they train. Fight when they fight.”

  “Only when asked,” I replied. “Only when used as partners. As targets. As reflections.”

  Drona raised an eyebrow. “And do you feel yourselves becoming like them?”

  I looked down. Then up.

  “We are not friends,” I said. “We are aides. That is what we were assigned to be.”

  “We observe only what is done in front of us. We do not steal their skill. We echo what is taught to all. And only after we’ve satisfied their expectations… do we receive anything in return.”

  “We do not rise, Acharya. Shadows do not rise. We only lengthen in service.”

  Drona’s ReactionDrona said nothing for a long while.

  Then he nodded.

  To Duryodhana:

  “Their words do not betray disobedience. Their movements may be sharp—but discipline is not a crime.”

  To us:

  “Do not mistake kindness for equality. But do not let obedience mean weakness, either.”

  And he dismissed us.

  But we knew the warning behind his eyes.

  This bond had reached a limit.

  Any more, and it would be broken—by power, by pride, or by politics.

  Later: Yudhishthira SpeaksThat night, Yudhishthira called me aside.

  We sat beneath the neem tree. The one where this had all started.

  “What did you tell him?” he asked.

  “The truth,” I said.

  “And what is that?”

  “That we are not your equals. Not in birth. Not in title. And never in voice.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He looked at me for a long time.

  “Then why do you still stay close?”

  “Because even shadows protect the ones they follow.”

  Closing Line“If I am to walk into war one day,” Yudhishthira said, “I hope you are still behind me. Even if you never walk beside me.”