Ink of Ages Fiction Prize

Perfection

The Mahabharata war had ended. The fallen were laid to rest with honour. Ashwatthama was cursed for the atrocity of attacking an unborn child. Gandhari’s sorrow twisted into a curse upon Krishna. And Yudhishthira, eldest of the Pandavas, was crowned king of the Bharatvarsha. 

But though the war had concluded, peace did not follow. A different battle now raged; one not of weapons, but of politics. 

The Kuru dynasty had consolidated power, but the vastness of Bharatvarsha demanded decentralised governance. The realm had to be divided into smaller states, entrusted to rulers who were upright and capable, mostly young heirs and women. 

Governors were appointed across the land. Except in one place: Panchaal. Draupadi’s homeland. 

The contenders for Panchal’s governance were Dhrishtadyumna’s son, Manada, and Shikhandi. 

They stood in the grand hall of Indraprastha, flanked by emissaries from Panchaal. Yudhishthira posed the question: “Whom do you wish as governor?” 

Their answer was firm. 

“Not Shikhandi.” 

Manada stood proud and composed, the image of a future ruler. Shikhandi, by contrast, stood like a warrior—eyes closed, still, serene. Shikhandi was remembering the night before. 

Presumed dead alongside their brother, Shikhandi was later discovered barely alive, gravely wounded. Their wife and child, however, were not as fortunate and were found beheaded by rogue elements, who were swiftly punished by Nakula. 

Manada was wise, kind, and just; a ruler in the making. Shikhandi thought of him like a son. And yet, something within them stirred. They didn’t crave the kingdom, not really, but something deeper gnawed at them. Something unnamed. 

For the first time in their life, they had no battle to fight. And in that stillness, Shikhandi turned inward.

Who were they, now that their purpose had ended? 

They sought out the one person who might understand, Draupadi. 

The queen received them with warmth, with the poise of a monarch and the love of a sister. 

“You’ve always been a queen, Paanchali,” Shikhandi whispered, deeply moved by her strength, despite the unhealed wounds of war. 

After unburdening their heart, they finally asked, “Should I step aside? The throne was always meant for Dhrishtadyumna’s son.” 

Draupadi nodded, gently. “Yes, sister. I believe it is time. Just as the king grooms our grandson, Parikshit, for the empire, so must Panchaal prepare Manada. He is ready. And he is capable.” 

But something within Shikhandi resisted. A voice within them flared, not loud, but unmistakably defiant. 

Was it selfishness? They recoiled at the thought. 

Or was it something else? 

As Shikhandi left the queen’s chambers, they spotted a familiar duo approaching: the fair Arjuna and the dark Krishna, eternal companions in battle and beyond. The war had neither dulled their skin nor their charms, just left a few scars, here and there. Arjuna was laughing, animated; Krishna wore his usual half-smile that was maddeningly serene and hauntingly knowing. 

Krishna’s smile, Shikhandi thought, was both intoxicating and unbearable. You could fall in love with it, or loathe it for how it saw through your soul and said nothing, and instead just smiled. 

To avoid conversation, Shikhandi fixed their gaze on the intricate stonework of Indraprastha’s floor. Only now did they realise how exquisite it was. 

Their reverie broke with Arjuna’s voice. 

“Oh, hello, brother! What brings you here?” 

Caught off guard, Shikhandi stammered, “I—I was just … missing Paanchali. Thought I’d visit. How are you?”

Arjuna responded with a weary grin, “Just trying to govern a realm where half the rulers are dead. And we thought war was hard!” 

He laughed. Shikhandi tried to join in. 

Then Krishna spoke, his voice teasing, “So, ready to claim Panchaal’s crown?” His words pricked at them. How did he know what plagued them? Of course, he always knew. “Yes … No. I mean—yes!” Shikhandi blurted out, flustered. 

Shikhandi turned and left without apology. From behind, Krishna called out, laughing, “I like your confidence, dear Shikhandi!” 

As they stepped beyond the castle gates, their world blurred. 

Suddenly, Shikhandi stood on Kurukshetra again. But not the battlefield of glory. This was the aftermath, the blood-soaked plains. 

Bodies were strewn across the field. Men in women’s attire, women clad like warriors. Some wore jewelry with swords at their sides; others lay with torn silks and broken helmets. And as their gaze sharpened, Shikhandi saw that they were all—them—Shikhandi. 

Face after face. Their own.

The dead were from distant lands. From times not their own. Yet all were Shikhandi: the same anguish, the same dissonance.

Shikhandi fell to their knees, trembling.

“Govind!” they cried out. “End this illusion of yours! I can’t bear it. I’m broken. I am nothing. Lost in this Kurukshetra between man and woman. Help me. Find me!” 

Shikhandi collapsed into the crimson swamp of bodies, gasping as they dragged them down. But just before the weight overcame them, a single dark hand reached through. 

Shikhandi grasped it. 

And in an instant, the battlefield changed. The blood was gone. The sky had turned the gold of the setting sun, the soil also golden, warm, and clean. Kurukshetra was empty, peaceful. 

At its centre stood Krishna, glowing in the golden light. In his iconic tribhanga pose, the silhouette radiant.

For a moment, Shikhandi couldn’t tell—was he a man or a woman? 

For a moment, it didn’t matter. 

Then Krishna said, almost playfully, “Oh, but how it matters.”

He walked toward them.

Shikhandi said, “It feels selfish.” 

“What does?” he asked. 

“To want the crown. When I don’t even desire it. Not truly.” 

Krishna tilted his head. “Then why do you want it?” 

“I don’t know,” they admitted. “I’m confused. About the crown. About myself. Am I a man? A woman? Am I, anything at all?” 

Krishna said nothing. Just smiled. 

And Shikhandi broke down. 

“You came for Draupadi,” they sobbed jealously. “Always for her. You rescued her. You answered her. But where were you when I needed you? When I struggled, not knowing if I was too much of a woman for war or too much of a man for love. Where were you when I was neither enough for my son nor my father? Why didn’t you ever come for me?” 

Krishna’s eyes glistened, but his smile didn’t fade. 

Shikhandi continued, voice cracking. 

“I’ve tried, Govind. I’ve tried to rise above.” Shikhandi wept. “I tried to be a woman. I didn’t fit. I tried to be a man. I didn’t fit. This body was never mine.

It was my father's, to craft a warrior. 

It was Amba's, for vengeance. 

It was my wife’s, seeking a husband 

It belonged to a Yaksha, whose gift I borrowed. 

But me? When did it ever belong to me?” 

Their voice grew steady.

“I want the crown. Not to rule. But to be seen. Kings represent men. Queens represent women. But who has ever stood for people like me? People who are both or neither. People erased. Hidden. Cast out. Laughed at. I want to be their face.” 

They paused. 

“You once told the Pandavas that desire is the root of all suffering. Is this desire, to want to be seen, also a flaw?” 

Shikhandi sighed, heavy with grief. Their breath trembled. Tears flowing down, Shikhandi dropped their face.

“Manada will be a great ruler. The people already love him. Maybe I should step aside. Maybe I’m just … split. I feel split. I have always felt split. Always rowing two boats. I want to be in just one. I just want to feel whole. But then how can someone like me, who is so confused, be a leader?” 

Shikhandi had let out her deepest thoughts, for the first time. Finally! When they looked up, they were no longer on Kurukshetra.

They were in Gokul. 

Krishna was in his cowherd’s clothes, not the silks of Dwaraka. The sun was still setting. The sky was still gold. 

He was tending to a calf and then asked gently, “Look at the sky, Shikhandi. Is it day or night?” 

Shikhandi wiped their tears. “Neither.” 

“And I say, both. And we’d both be right.” Krishna smiled. “Do you see sharp boundaries between day and night? Between land and sea? Sky and space? And yet, it is at those very thresholds where the most beauty lies.” 

Shikhandi listened. 

Krishna went on. “I wear nose rings like queens. I wear alta on my hands and ankles like Apsaras. Jewellery like the women of my village. I’ve been mocked too. But do those things make me less of a man? Or more of one? If I am God, I cannot afford to be only night or only day. I must be both. If I am time, I must flow. I must be fluid.” 

He stepped closer. “You wonder where I was. But I was there. When you danced like a man and fought like a woman—I was there. I was you.” Krishna gently placed a hand on their shoulder. “You weren’t born to row two boats. You were born to be the sea that carries them both.”

Shikhandi closed their eyes. “Do you think I’m right?” they whispered. “Not just … a flaw in God’s World. A mistake. A flaw in your plan?” 

When Shikhandi opened their eyes again, they were back in Indraprastha. The hall was packed. 

Yudhishthira had posed the question: “Whom do you wish as governor?” And the people repeated, “Not Shikhandi.” 

One rose to speak. “Your Majesty, we cannot appoint Shikhandi. We don’t even know whether to call Shikhandi a man or a woman. How can a half-man lead us? Shikhandi was a tool meant only to avenge Amba. Other than that, they are just a flaw in God’s plan, Krishna would agree.” 

Yudhishthira looked to Krishna, uncertain. 

But Shikhandi stepped forward.

For the first time, they spoke not as a warrior or a shadow, but as themselves. “Half-man,” they repeated. “Is that all I am? 

Was I a half-man when I stood against Bhishma? 

When I led Panchaal’s armies? 

When I helped win you this peace? 

But now, I am simply a half! Too inconvenient to crown. 

You call me a flaw in God’s plan. 

Well, I am no flaw. I am whole. 

I am as whole as Govind’s peacock feather, shimmering with every hue of rainbow when kissed by Surya’s golden rays. 

As whole as Draupadi’s courage. As whole as Arjuna’s valour. 

I ask not for pity, but for the chance to serve. 

Governance comes not from the body but the soul and mind. 

See me—not as a man or a woman—but as one who knows both. 

See me as a bridge, not a rift.” 

Shikhandi paused. “I don’t ask you to choose between man and woman. I ask you to recognise what lies beyond this binary choice, a truth that holds both! Holds all.” 

As their words faded, silence hung. 

Krishna rose and walked toward the exit. 

Yudhishthira still had to decide. But Krishna’s work was done. 

At the far end of the hall, Krishna turned back and looked at Shikhandi. 

They stood tall—yet graceful. Their voice had been soft, almost melodic. Feminine. Masculine. And everything between. His gaze lingered on the shimmering halo around Shikhandi: an ethereal plume of a giant peacock feather, iridescent with all the colors of a rainbow.

Krishna smiled to himself, as if answering a question only he had heard. “They wonder,” he whispered, “if you are a flaw in my plan.” His eyes twinkled. 

“Oh, but I am a perfectionist!”