The weeks after the miraculous births were a festival in Hastinapur.
The people sang of Queen Gandhari — the mother who bore a hundred sons and one daughter, whose womb had once been silent and now thundered with life. From the streets to the temples, her name was sung alongside that of Lord Shiva, whose boon had been fulfilled.
But within the palace, the true miracle was not only the newborn princes — it was the way Gandhari's heart overflowed with motherly grace. Every day she would visit the nursery hall where the jars once stood, now replaced by tiny cradles carved from sandalwood. Each cradle bore a golden plate engraved with a name — Duryodhana, Duhshasana, Vikarna… Duhshala.
Yet her eyes, soft and luminous, often turned to the courtyard, where a boy of ten trained with the palace guards. His silver-hued eyes gleamed in the sun, his every movement controlled and perfect.
Vasu.
He had become her first son not by birth, but by fate.
One quiet evening, Gandhari stood on the balcony, holding Duryodhana in her arms as the twilight turned gold. Dritharashtra sat beside her, his unseeing eyes turned toward the wind, listening to the sound of his wife's steady breathing.
"He has your will," Gandhari said softly, brushing her child's cheek.
"And your strength," Dritharashtra replied. "But it is Vasu's eyes I feel upon him — calm, watchful. Like the gaze of destiny itself."
Gandhari smiled faintly. "That child… he carries something beyond this world. I cannot name it, but whenever he walks near the Kaurava children, even the restless ones grow quiet. He guards them without being told."
Dritharashtra nodded. "Perhaps that is why fate brought him to our doors. The gods knew I could not see the world — so they gave me a son who is my eyes."
Then, with trembling hands, he reached out for Gandhari's face. His fingers brushed the blindfold tied once again across her eyes. His heart clenched.
"My queen," he whispered, "do not shroud your light again. Let my world be seen through yours. Be my eyes, my path, my strength."
Tears welled beneath the cloth. Slowly, Gandhari untied it — the silken strip falling like a petal onto the marble floor. Her eyes, radiant and golden, met his unseeing ones.
In that moment, something divine passed between them — a vow wordless yet eternal.
"Then I will be your sight," she said, voice breaking. "And for that, I thank the boy who made me open my eyes again. May the gods bless him a thousandfold."
A year passed.
The princes grew, the palace thrived, and Vasu matured into a being of calm power and quiet authority. Though still a child, his words held weight even before elders. Karna trained beside him every day, following him like his shadow, and together they were called the two suns of Hastinapur — one of radiant courage, the other of tempered wisdom.
That evening, as the twin moons rose above the river, the royal court gathered. Dritharashtra had summoned everyone — the courtiers, the sages, even the young Vasu and Karna — for a ceremony of blessing for the new heirs of Kuru. Gandhari sat proudly among her children, while Bhishma stood tall behind the throne, watching with approval.
When the sacred hymns ended, Dritharashtra rose from his seat. "Today," he declared, "I bless my sons, and I bless the fate of Hastinapur. But more than that, I bless the two children who have shown this kingdom what loyalty means — Vasu, son of none yet brother to all, and Radheya, son of Adhiratha and Radha."
The entire court bowed. Vasu and Karna stepped forward, their heads low. Gandhari's eyes filled with tears of pride.
Dritharashtra lifted his hand toward Vasu.
"You have guarded my sons as if they were your own blood. You have been their guide, their calm, their elder. Speak, child — what is it you wish from Hastinapur?"
"My King, my Father — I wish for nothing. Yet if fate allows me a choice, I pledge this: As long as there is breath in me, I shall guard your sons and your throne. I will raise Duryodhana as my own brother, protect him from those who seek to harm him, and ensure that the Kuru name never bows to humiliation."
His words rolled through the hall like thunder wrapped in silk. Even Bhishma, the grand pillar of Kuru, felt a strange chill — the gods themselves seemed to pause.
Then Vasu continued, voice firm and bright with conviction:
"This I swear, upon the river that bore me, upon the mother who nurtured me, and upon the sun whose blood flows within me."
The torches flickered. The banners trembled though no wind blew. In the heavens, a faint rumble echoed — as if the very gods acknowledged the vow.
Gandhari's tears spilled freely now. She rose, crossing the floor despite the decorum, and embraced Vasu tightly.
"Then I claim you as my eldest, O Guardian of Kuru. You will always be the first among my children."
Vasu knelt and placed his forehead against her feet.
"Then I, your son, swear that my sword and my soul belong to this house."
And beside him, Karna stepped forward. His young voice quivered but did not break.
"I, Radheya, son of Radha and Adhiratha, also pledge before the gods — where my brother stands, I shall stand. Where he fights, I shall fight. May my bow break before I abandon this oath."
The court fell silent. Even Bhishma — proud, steadfast Bhishma — lowered his head in respect. For in those two boys, he saw something both terrible and beautiful: the makings of fate itself.
That night, Gandhari prepared the sacred tilak herself. She placed it on Vasu's forehead first — a mark of royal crimson and gold.
"From this day forth," she whispered, "you are my son, the eldest of Kuru. Protect your brothers, and protect yourself from the poison of politics. Not all smiles in this palace are pure."
Vasu nodded, feeling the warmth of her hand linger like divine fire.
Then she turned to Karna and pressed a second tilak to his brow.
"You, the son of Radha — you are the light of friendship. May you always remember that your worth is not decided by your birth, but by the strength of your heart."
Radha and Adhiratha, standing nearby, wept silently — for their humble home had produced a son the queen herself had blessed.
When the ceremony ended, Gandhari stood beside Dritharashtra and whispered through her tears,
"Our sons will rule this land. But those two — Vasu and Radheya — they will hold it together."
As the night deepened, the stars seemed to burn brighter.
High above, in the unseen realm, celestial beings watched — some with awe, others with fear.
The Guardian had taken his pledge.
The child of sun and river had bound his destiny to Hastinapur.
And the universe itself trembled, as if whispering an omen that only time would unveil.
Below, in the quiet of the palace gardens, Vasu looked to the horizon where the Ganga shimmered under moonlight. His heart whispered a thought he did not voice aloud:
"This city will be my burden and my blessing. And when the world burns in pride and lies, I shall be its shield… even if it costs me everything."
And far away, the faint sound of conch shells echoed —
as if destiny itself had just exhaled.
Four years passed.
The gardens of Hastinapur flourished under the song of conch shells and the rhythm of sword drills. The Kuru princes grew into fierce young warriors — Duryodhana, proud and unbending; Duhshasana, wild in temper; Vikarna, loyal and quiet; Duhshala, gentle as dawn. And above them all stood one figure who had become their sun and moon both: Vasu, the Guardian.
Though he walked among them as a brother, the truth was whispered in the wind — that his veins carried the hum of divinity. Each morning, before the palace stirred, he would stand upon the high terrace and greet the first light. His eyes shimmered silver, his body drinking in the sunlight — yet he restrained himself, letting only a fraction of that energy flow within.
"Not yet," he would murmur to the dawn.
"The world is not ready for what I am."
Every day he trained the Kauravas, teaching Duryodhana discipline, Duhshasana patience, and the younger brothers honor.
He became the unspoken heart of the royal sons — a commander at ten, a philosopher at twelve, a legend in whispers by fourteen.
For Gandhari, he was not only protector but peace itself.
She had seen the changes he wrought in her sons — Duryodhana bowed to none but respected Vasu as his elder. Duhshasana feared his anger more than Bhishma's punishment. Even the royal guards obeyed his word like law.
In quiet hours, Gandhari often sat beside Dritharashtra in the chamber of lamps.
"You hear how the city speaks of him?" she would whisper. "They call him The Guardian of Kuru. It is as if fate itself made him to hold our lineage steady."
Dritharashtra smiled faintly.
"And yet, Gandhari, he never shows pride. I have heard the clang of his blade — it sings like thunder — but he never fights in anger. Even Bhishma himself said, 'If that boy ever fights in earnest, the earth will remember his name for ages.'"
Gandhari lowered her gaze, her voice filled with motherly devotion.
"He is the son I prayed for before Duryodhana was born. A son of calm, wisdom, and love."
In secret, Vasu's body changed.
When he meditated, a soft silver aura would rise from his skin, weaving through the air like mist. He could feel every heartbeat in the palace, every flicker of life in the city. The Silver Superman Gene, now fused perfectly with his mortal frame, responded to every thought.
But he kept it sealed — ninety-nine percent locked away.
He fought only with one-hundredth of his true might, letting others believe he was only a prodigy, not a god in flesh.
"Power," he once whispered to Karna beneath the moon, "is not meant to be shown until the world begs for it.
A sword drawn too soon bleeds the wrong men."
Karna had nodded, eyes gleaming with fierce trust.
"Then I will be your scabbard, brother — and your bowstring when that time comes."
Then, one summer dawn, the city awoke to the sound of horns.
Dust rose from the northern road, where a royal caravan approached — banners of white and blue, horses adorned with forest garlands.
The Pandavas had returned.
The news spread like wildfire. Servants ran through corridors, guards straightened their armor, and Gandhari stood at the balcony, her eyes narrowing in disbelief.
"After four years…" she murmured. "Why now?"
Dritharashtra's hands clenched his throne. "Kunti returns at last. Perhaps grief has ended its hold on her."
But Gandhari said nothing. Something in her heart whispered unease.
When the caravan halted before the royal courtyard, Kunti descended first — draped in white, her face serene and eyes glistening with tears. Behind her walked her sons — Yudhishthira tall and composed, Bheem broad and restless, Arjun with the sharp gaze of pride, and the twins Nakul and Sahadeva, graceful as young lions.
The court gathered.
Vasu stood beside Gandhari, silent as a statue, while Karna watched from the shadows of the pillars.
Kunti approached Gandhari and bowed deeply.
"O Queen, it is by your prayers that we return alive. The forest tested us, but the gods protected us."
Her voice trembled — soft, humble, perfect for sympathy. Yet beneath that humility, Vasu's sharp mind felt something else — calculation.
He felt the weight of her words linger longer than they should, each chosen for pity and politics.
Gandhari embraced her nonetheless, ever the embodiment of compassion.
"You have suffered, sister. Let the walls of Hastinapur heal you now."
Kunti smiled sweetly, but her eyes briefly flicked to the young boys at Gandhari's side — the hundred princes of Kuru and the two radiant children beside them, Vasu and Karna. There was a moment — a heartbeat of envy — when her gaze paused on Vasu. The boy everyone calls Guardian. The boy the queen calls son.
Her lips curved just slightly.
"What handsome sons you have, Gandhari," she said warmly. "Truly, the gods have favored you."
But her thoughts whispered something else:
And they will favor me again, when my sons take what is yours.