“Dhruva…! Wake up, my boy. The sun is about to rise,” Baahubali whispered, before turning to Abhirami. “And you. You rakshasi! You pulled my hair and said you wanted to see Amma dance!”

The children, now three years old, only grumbled in protest.

Baahubali had loved the young twins more than he ever thought he could. For they were not just his niece and nephew. In his eyes, they were the babies that drank the poison of their mother’s suffering and gave her the nectar of bliss.

They saved his sister, albeit unknowingly. To that, he would be eternally grateful.

Lalita would always stiffen slightly when Baahubali talked about this. It was her job to protect Dhruva and Abhirami. And in her opinion, it never was, and it never would be the reverse.

She knew, somewhere deep within her heart of hearts, that Baahubali’s words were never meant to place a burden on their little shoulders. It was only a reverence for divine intervention that manifested in the form of these children; one that would never dominate his instincts as their guardian.  

And yet the thought that she might fail the kids, in one way or another, always caught up to her. 

She already lost someone she loved as her very life.  She could not survive something like that once again.

Or worse, she could not pray for everything to go well only to find out that she had just been ignorant all along, of any damage she might have caused unintentionally.

But Baahubali remained by her side, with all her fears, hopes, tears, and laughter. And he was there to make sure that she never lost herself in any of it.

Part of that was him forcing her to never quit her dance practice early in the mornings.

Dhruva stirred with Baahubali’s touch first. “Oh… Mama.”

“Good morning, little warrior,” Baahubali ruffled his hair. Dhruva whined softly in protest, a sound that was barely audible. 

Dhruva immediately climbed onto Baahubali’s lap. “Good morning, Mama,” the boy pressed a kiss to uncle’s cheek. It never failed to melt Baahubali’s heart. Never. He always peppered the boy’s forehead with many more kisses.

The boy was somehow a complete replica of Rudra, though they’d never met. Lalita told the children stories of the kind of man their father was, and perhaps Dhruva was perceptive enough to also notice the admiration his all-powerful uncle had for him. It was but natural that he chose to become like this mysterious hero he couldn’t wait to meet one day.

Baahubali shook the girl’s shoulder again. She blindly reached out for the bedside desk and flung a flower vase at him, which he managed to evade only by a hair’s breadth.

Abhirami was undoubtedly a younger version of the Rajamata, an absolute spitfire. Her audacious temperament never needed any explanation even to a stranger in Maahishmati.

Baahubali sighed, shaking his head, and only picked Abhirami up and threw her over his shoulder like he would a bag of salt. She didn’t even stir. Much like Lalita, she was usually dead to the world once asleep.

Dhruva giggled softly and held Baahubali’s hand as the latter guided him toward the Natyamandapam, where according to the traditions, a yearly celebration would be conducted to honour Mahadeva with hundreds of dancers presenting their performances before him. It was less a festivity and more an offering; a small token of gratitude for having blessed these people with his art.

Lalita was participating after a break of three years, when she’d occupied herself completely with raising her children and the royal duties. She could never understand how Sivagami managed to rescue an entire kingdom from rebellion—or worse, anarchy—under similar circumstances.

But she would not admit this aloud, not fully. Lalita still walked the fine line between warming up to her mother again, and still being wary of her. She ignored how exhausting it was—to contemplate how she could be betrayed by a woman who had given her three years of reasons that deserved only trust.

Abhirami had finally opened her eyes to the world only when the first light of the sun caressed her skin. She wrapped her arms loosely around Baahubali’s neck and lifted her head. 

“Oh, Her Royal Highness wakes,” he stated. “Look, Amma is right there.”

While Dhruva let go of Baahubali’s hand to run ahead, Abhirami squinted. The voice reached her first.

“Yajna Swaroopaya Jatadharaya, Pinaka Hastaya Sanatanaya…”

He who is the embodiment of sacrifice, the essence of cosmic order, He who has matted locks. He bears the Pinaka bow in his hands, He who is eternal.

Abhirami squealed in excitement, realisation arriving with a moment’s delay. She kicked her legs in the air. “Mama, put me down!”

He chuckled, pulling her cheek before obliging. She raced against the wind to reach Dhruva and hold his hand as they ran together towards the Hall of Dance.

“Divyaya Devaya Digambaraya, Tasmai ‘Ya’-karaya Namah Shivaya…”

To the divine One who has the directions as his robes, I bow and offer the sound ‘Ya’ in worship.

As Lalita bowed to an imaginary Shivalinga, Abhirami appeared before her and placed her tiny hand on her mother’s head. “Ayushman bhava, Amma!”

Lalita sat up and gasped in surprise. “When did you come?!”

Dhruva ran up to Lalita and clapped in delight. “Amma, you’re the best dancer in the world!”

“No, my son. Nataraja is the best dancer in the world. I am merely a devotee,” she rubbed the sweat off her face using her forearm, before picking him up and carrying him over her hip.

“You are disregarding my blessings!” Abhirami pouted trying to stomp away, but Lalita was quick to pick her up.

“You blessed me wrong, young lady. It’s supposed to be Ayushmati bhava,” Lalita corrected her while pressing a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. Abhirami immediately buried her head under Lalita’s chin. 

“But Amma,” Dhruva began with the tone that he took whenever he was about to start an intellectual debate. “You said you were Rama’s devotee last week.”

“You changed favourites?” Abhirami gasped. “Poor Rama.”

“Shhh, you silly children!” Lalita giggled, walking towards the palace. “Nataraja is a form of Shiva, Rama is an incarnation of Vishnu. Remember this: neither of them feel bad when I worship the other, because Shiva and Vishnu are the best of friends.”

“Like you are my best friend,” Dhruva threw his arms around Lalita’s neck.

“Just like my best friend is Baahu Mama!” Abhirami announced in delight. “But don’t tell him that.”

“Why not?” Lalita smiled as her eyebrows scrunched up in an amused frown. 

“Because if he knows, he won’t get me almond milk when I act mad at him,” she explained, whispering the strategy in her mother’s ears. 

Lalita chortled. “Oh, I wish I was as smart as you when Baahu and I were younger!” 

Baahubali, who was watching all of this unfold from a distance, heard nothing but his sister’s laughter. He smiled faintly, trying to ignore the burning sensation. 

Three years.

Three years and he hadn’t gotten used to this at some level—not after watching her spirit being destroyed by grief when he returned from that hostage rescue mission. 

There were still days he woke up fearing she was back in that dark place, afraid he wouldn’t be able to pull her back this time.

But the children always ran to him, his shining rays of hope.

Every single time.

“Baahu, are you coming or not?” Lalita called out.

“Coming!” he yelled back. 

Lalita had put the children down and the air was filled with the sound of pieces of their jewellery clattering and their gleeful shrieks as they chased each other around the garden. 

They were finally healing… but there was just one thing missing.

Or rather, one person.

‘Come back soon, Rudra. You’re missing out on a lot,’ the older pair of twins thought to themselves.

I know this was a short chapter, especially after a break, but bear with me I have a lot of deadlines and exams coming up. Hopefully won't delay the next updates, though 🙏