"She wasn't invited to the celebration. But fate came to her door."
Radha stirred the pot slowly, her eyes fixed on the thick mixture bubbling in front of her. The smell of rice and ghee filled the kitchen. She tried to focus on the cooking, on the warmth of the fire, on the steady movement of her hands.
But the music outside wouldn't stop.
Drums. Flute. Someone singing. Loud laughter.
Her neighbour's house was full of noise today. Their fourth son had been born last week, and now the naming ceremony was going on. The whole lane had been invited.
Except her.
Radha wiped the sweat from her forehead. She wasn't angry — not really. Just… tired. She had gotten used to this.
People didn't say it to her face, but she knew what they thought.
"Poor woman. So many years, still no child."
Some even whispered she was cursed.
She added more ghee to the pot. The smell rose again, stronger now, but it didn't help. The music kept slipping into her ears, reminding her that her courtyard was still silent. No little feet. No cries. No lullabies.
Only the sound of the wind and a pot boiling on the fire.
Radha didn't hear the door creak open.
Adhiratha stepped into the house and quietly closed it behind him. The soft scent of spices drifted in the air — turmeric, lentils, a faint whiff of burnt ghee — but it wasn't strong enough to hide the sound of distant music still echoing from the neighbor's house.
He glanced toward the kitchen and saw her — standing still in front of the stove, her hand resting absently on the ladle. The pot had started to boil, but she hadn't noticed. Her eyes weren't on the food. Her thoughts had drifted far from the kitchen.
He didn't call her name. Just watched for a moment, long enough to know where her thoughts were.
It was happening again. She was trying to keep herself busy, trying to stay strong — but inside, she was breaking.
Adhiratha let out a quiet sigh and turned away.
He didn't have the heart to disturb her.
Walking past the small courtyard, he stepped into their bedroom — a simple room with wooden shelves, a folded mat in the corner, and a single brass mirror hanging from the wall. He undid the clasp of his upper cloth and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the tiredness from his face.
He didn't want to go.
Every part of him wished he could stay with her — hold her hand, sit beside her, and say nothing at all. But he couldn't. Not today.
They had invited him out of duty, not warmth. He was the head of their people — the Sutas looked up to him, and so he must show up, smile, bless the newborn, speak the right words.
Even if his heart was not in it.
Even if his own house remained silent.
Even if the one woman he loved most in this world hadn't been invited at all.
He opened the trunk at the foot of the bed, pulled out a clean cotton cloth, and began changing. His hands moved slowly. Outside, the flute music continued to float in through the window.
In the kitchen, the pot boiled over.
Adhiratha came out of the bedroom after changing his clothes. The soft cotton cloth still smelled a bit like the oil he had rubbed on his body. He wished he didn't have to go. But as the leader of their people, he had to.
She was still near the stove. The pot was almost spilling over, but she didn't even glance at it. Her eyes were open, but unfocused — fixed on a place far beyond the kitchen.
He stood there for a moment, watching her.
She looked tired. She wore the same faded saree she always did at home, her hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck. She hadn't noticed him at all.
He knew what was bothering her. That music from the neighbour's house — it was loud enough for the whole street to hear. Just yesterday, a neighbour had smiled at her but when Radha bent to say hello to the woman's child, the woman pulled the little one closer. Not unkindly. Just... cautiously. As if her barrenness might spread.
Adhiratha felt something tight in his chest. He looked at the pot. Then at her. Still, no reaction.
He walked slowly to her, then wrapped his arms around her from behind.
She flinched a little, then sighed.
"I don't want to go," he said quietly. "But I have to. They'll talk otherwise."
She didn't answer. Just stood there. He could feel how stiff her body was.
"I'll be back soon," he said. "We can sit outside tonight. Maybe talk."
She gave a small nod. He didn't know if it meant yes or just that she heard him.
Adhiratha stood still for a moment, watching Radha's face. There was no spark when she looked at him — only a tired stillness, as if even hope had fallen quiet. He hated seeing her like this. It made something ache quietly inside him, something no words could fix. But still, he tried.
"Don't be sad, dear," he said softly, stepping closer. "Sometimes good things take time to happen. Maybe… maybe our son will be the best son in the world. That's why he's taking longer. He's waiting for the right moment to arrive."
Radha didn't speak. Her hands kept moving on the pot, stirring it slowly, as if the rhythm of it could calm her thoughts.
Adhiratha smiled faintly, trying again. "Or maybe," he added, teasing just a little, "he's giving me more time to spend with my wife before he shows up and takes all your love for himself."
Radha paused. A small breath left her nose — almost a laugh. Then she looked over her shoulder and gave him a quiet smile. It didn't reach her eyes fully, but it was there.
"Don't worry," she said. "I'll never forget you. Even if our son becomes my first priority… you'll still be in my heart."
Adhiratha's chest felt lighter hearing that. Just a little. He looked at her for another moment, not wanting to leave. Not like this. Not when she was forcing a smile just to make him feel better.
But Radha nudged him gently. "Go," she said, wiping her hands on the edge of her saree. "You'll be late for the ceremony."
He sighed but nodded. "I'll be back soon," he said.
She didn't reply, just turned back to the kitchen.
Adhiratha took one last look before stepping outside, carrying her half-smile in his heart.
She barely registered the moment he stepped out. Her mind had already drifted elsewhere. Her hands moved on their own, taking the pot off the stove before it spilled again. The sharp smell of overcooked rice filled the kitchen. She had forgotten the pot again, but she didn't flinch. Her eyes, tired and dry, stared ahead at nothing.
The music still played — laughter, drums, a woman singing a lullaby. It had started yesterday, and with it, her sleepless night. Even with the door shut and the windows closed, the sounds managed to creep in — like wind finding its way through the smallest cracks.
She had pressed her palms to her ears so many times. It didn't help.
She hummed an old childhood tune, but it only made the music from next door feel crueler. She stood still in the middle of the kitchen, her eyes stinging, throat heavy. Her empty arms ached to hold something — anything.
Then came a knock at the door.
Not loud. Just two soft thuds.
Radha turned her head.
A moment later, an old man's voice called out, dry and faint:
"Mother… do you have something? I'm very hungry. I haven't eaten today… walked a long way to get here…"
Radha stood still.
She didn't recognize the voice. It was an old man, asking for food. Just a few words, but they pulled her out of her thoughts.
She looked down at her hands — damp and sticky from the starchy water — and blinked. Her mind had been restless since last night. No sleep. Too much thinking.
The music from next door hadn't stopped. Neither had the ache in her chest.
She didn't know why — only that something inside her stirred. As if her heart had been waiting… for a sign. For anything.
She didn't stop to think — only felt something stir in her chest, whispering that this moment mattered. She couldn't explain it. Her heart had already decided and she went to the door.
Author's Note
Hi everyone,
Thank you so much for reading the first chapter of Radheya: The Son of Radha.
This story is really close to my heart. It's inspired by the Mahabharata, but I've taken a different path—an alternate version where things don't happen exactly the way we know them. I just wanted to explore, what if the story had gone another way?
To be honest, I'm still learning. I'm not a professional writer. I just have a deep love for storytelling and these characters, and I'm trying my best to do justice to their emotions and journeys. I know the writing might not be perfect, but I really hope it touched you in some way.
If you have a moment, I'd truly appreciate your feedback. Even a small comment—what you felt, what you liked (or didn't)—would mean a lot to me. I'm a little nervous, but also excited to share more with you.
Thank you for being here.
– TheYugantaraQuill