The Hastinapur palace, bathed in the silver glow of the moon, stood silent save for the soft rustle of leaves in the gardens. After a sumptuous dinner in the grand feast hall, Bahubali found sleep elusive.
Restless, he left his chambers, his silver-embroidered kurta catching the moonlight as he wandered the palace corridors, their marble floors cool beneath his feet. The grandeur of Hastinapur, built by the sweat and blood of Kuru kings, felt both familiar and foreign, a reminder of his childhood yet a stage for his new role as Magadha Naresh.
As he roamed, a faint melody reached his ears—a voice, soft and soulful, weaving a song of devotion to Mata Saraswati. Intrigued, Bahubali followed the sound, his steps silent, drawn like a moth to a flame. The song led him to a secluded garden, its flowerbeds blooming with jasmine and roses, their fragrance mingling with the night air.
There, seated on a stone bench beneath a flowering champa tree, was Princess Dushala, her silken sari shimmering under the moon, her eyes closed as she sang, her voice pure and unadorned, carrying the weight of her heart's reverence.
Bahubali stood at the garden's edge, captivated, not wishing to interrupt her. As the final notes faded, he couldn't resist clapping gently, his applause breaking the stillness. "Princess Dushala, that was beautiful," he said, his voice warm with admiration. "Your song felt like an offering to Mata Saraswati herself, stirring the heart with its beauty. Truly, Hastinapur is blessed to have such a gifted princess."
Dushala started, her eyes snapping open, a hand flying to her chest as she turned toward the sound. Seeing Bahubali, her cheeks flushed a soft pink, her shyness evident as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
"Magadha Naresh!" she exclaimed, her voice a mix of surprise and embarrassment. "I—I didn't know anyone was here. You startled me! This garden was private, meant only for the royals of Hastinapur. How did you find your way here?"
Bahubali stepped forward, his smile apologetic yet disarming. "Pranipat, Princess Dushala. Forgive me for intruding. I couldn't sleep, so I wandered the palace, seeking the night's calm. There were no guards at the garden's entrance, and I assumed it was open to guests. Your song drew me like a river to the sea—I couldn't resist following it. I meant no disrespect to your privacy, I assure you. If you wish, I'll leave at once."
Dushala shook her head, her blush fading as she regained her composure, though her eyes sparkled with curiosity. "No, please, Magadha Naresh, there's no need to leave. It was an honest mistake, and I'm… glad you liked my singing. I often come here at night when the palace sleeps, to sing my heart's thoughts to the gods. It's my sanctuary, away from the court's noise and my brothers' endless chatter. But tell me, do you also sing? Your veena at the feast was breathtaking, like Mahadev himself played through you. Surely a voice that masters such music can weave a song as well."
Bahubali chuckled, his eyes reflecting the moonlight, his demeanor warm and unguarded. "You're kind, Princess. Yes, I do sing, though I claim no mastery. My teachers taught me the sixty-eight kalas, including music. Singing, to me, is like speaking to the soul of the world, a way to connect with Mahadev and Mata Parvati, who guide my path. It's not about skill but sincerity, offering what little I have to their lotus feet."
Dushala's eyes widened, her curiosity deepening. "That's beautiful, Magadha Naresh. Your devotion shines in everything you do, your music, your words, even the way you defended Karna and the arts in court. I've never heard anyone speak so reverently of the kalas, as if each is a sacred act. Would you… would you sing for me? I know it's bold to ask, but your veena stirred my heart, and I long to hear your voice in song. Please, if it's not too much."
Bahubali's smile softened, his gaze meeting hers with gentle respect. "Princess Dushala, your request is no burden but a joy. If my song can bring you a moment's peace, I'm honored to offer it. Let me sing a hymn to Mahadev, one I crafted on the banks of the Ganga in Magadha, under a moon like this, when my heart was full of gratitude for His guidance."
He paused, closing his eyes, centering himself, then began—a deep, resonant melody, a song of Lord Shiva's grace, his voice weaving images of Kailash's peaks, the Ganga's flow, and Mahadev's serene gaze, each note a prayer.
Dushala listened, her eyes fixed on him, as if drawn into a trance. The song's rhythm and Bahubali's voice, imbued with devotion, painted a world where the divine walked among mortals, and she felt her heart soar, lost in the melody's embrace.
When the final note faded, she remained still, her gaze locked on Bahubali, her expression one of awe, as if waking from a dream yet lingering in its glow.
Bahubali, noticing her stillness, clapped his hands lightly before her face, his voice teasing yet kind. "Princess Dushala? Are you still with me, or has Mahadev spirited you to Kailash?"
Dushala blinked, snapping out of her trance, her cheeks flushing again as she laughed softly, embarrassed. "Oh, Magadha Naresh, forgive me! Your song… it was like nothing I've ever heard. It felt as if I stood before Mahadev Himself, His presence woven into every note. You sang with such heart, such power, it carried me away. Thank you, truly, for sharing that with me. Your teachers must be divine to craft such a voice."
Bahubali bowed slightly, his tone humble. "Your words honor my teachers, Princess, not me. I'm but a vessel for their teachings, striving to reflect their light. Your song, too, was a gift, and I'm grateful to share this moment with someone who understands the kalas' sacredness. Tell me, what was your kanyakul like? What did you learn there, to sing with such grace and move with such poise?"
Dushala's face lit up, her shyness giving way to enthusiasm. "My kanyakul was in the ashram of Guru Vimala, nestled in the hills near the Yamuna. It was a place of peace, far from Hastinapur's politics. We learned the kalas—singing, dancing, painting, poetry, and the scriptures, but also practical skills like managing a household or aiding warriors in times of war. Guru Vimala taught us that a princess's strength lies not just in grace but in wisdom, to guide her family through joy and strife. I loved music most—singing to Mata Saraswati felt like speaking to my own heart. We also studied the stars, learned to read omens, and practiced archery, though I confess my bow is far less skilled than my veena! It was a time of growth, of finding myself beyond being 'the Kuru princess.' But tell me, Magadha Naresh, of your travels. You've seen so much of Aryavrat, faced Jarasandha himself—what adventures have shaped you?"
Bahubali leaned against a nearby pillar, his voice rich with memory. "My travels began when I left Hastinapur as a boy, seeking knowledge and purpose. My teachers took me to places mortals rarely tread, forests where rishis meditate, rivers where devas whisper, mountains that touch the heavens. I learned archery under starlit skies, wrestled with my own doubts by sacred fires, and sculpted stone to honor the divine. Facing Jarasandha was but one trial; his immortality was fearsome, but my teachers' blessings and Karna's valor saw us through. We fought not for glory but to free Magadha's people from tyranny. Every journey taught me this: dharma is not a throne or a weapon, but a heart that serves others, whether king or commoner. Magadha's reforms—schools, hospitals, homes for the needy—are my true adventure, building a kingdom where all can rise, as Mahadev wills."
Dushala listened, her eyes wide, hanging on his words. "That's incredible, Magadha Naresh. To fight a tyrant, yet care so deeply for your people—it's rare, even among kings. My brothers speak of war and power, but you speak of service and dharma. Magadha must be a paradise under your rule. I wish I could see it someday, to walk among your schools and hear the laughter of children you've uplifted."
Bahubali smiled, touched by her sincerity. "You would be welcome in Magadha, Princess. Its gates are open to those who value dharma. Perhaps one day, you'll see the temple I'm building for Mahadev and Mata Parvati, its stones carved with my own hands. But for now, the hour grows late, and I've kept you too long in this garden. May I escort you to your chambers? The palace is vast, and I'd feel remiss leaving you to walk alone."
Dushala shook her head, her smile gentle but firm. "Thank you, Magadha Naresh, but there's no need. This is my home, and the paths are familiar, even in moonlight. Besides, my attendants are nearby, though they give me privacy here. Your kindness is enough."
Bahubali nodded, respecting her choice. "Then I'll bid you good night, Princess Dushala. This moment—your song, our talk—has been a gift, like a star in a restless night. May Mahadev and Mata Saraswati bless your dreams."
Dushala's eyes softened, her voice warm. "Good night, Magadha Naresh. Your song and words have brightened my heart. May Mahadev guide your path, as He always has. Sleep well."
She turned, her sari trailing like a silver stream as she walked toward the palace's inner quarters, her figure graceful under the moon.
Bahubali watched her go, a quiet smile on his lips, his heart stirred by her sincerity and spirit. As she vanished from sight, he shook his head lightly, amused at the unexpected connection, and turned back toward his chambers, the melody of their encounter lingering in his mind.