Nine months had woven their tapestry since the joyous announcement of Maharani Dushala's pregnancy, a period of quiet anticipation in Magadha's palace.
The kingdom flourished under Bahubali and Dushala's rule, the Mahadev Mandir's consecration a cherished memory that still echoed in the people's hearts.
But on this crisp dawn, the palace stirred with urgency. From the queen's chambers, the labored cries of Dushala pierced the air, a symphony of pain and promise, as midwives and healers tended to her.
Inside, the room was a haven of controlled chaos—scented with camphor and rosewater, lit by soft oil lamps, with Maharani Gandhari holding Dushala's hand, her veiled face etched with maternal concern, Bhanumati, five months pregnant and glowing, wiping her sister-in-law's brow with a cool cloth, and Sumitra, Bahubali's mother, murmuring soothing words, her experienced hands offering herbal infusions to ease the pain.
"Push, my child, push with the strength of a Kuru queen," Gandhari murmured, her voice steady and soothing, drawing from her own trials. "Mahadev is with you—breathe, Dushala, and let the new life come."
Dushala, her face flushed with effort, gripped Gandhari's hand, her breaths ragged. "Mata… it's… it's almost here. I can feel it."
Bhanumati, her own hand resting on her belly, offered a damp cloth, her voice gentle. "You're doing wonderfully, Dushala. Think of Bahubali, waiting outside—your son will be his pride. One more breath, sister."
Sumitra, her eyes misty with a mother's empathy, stroked Dushala's hair, her voice calm. "My daughter, you're stronger than you know. Breathe deep, as you did in our lessons."
Outside the chamber, Bahubali paced the marble corridor, his vajra-like frame tense despite his calm exterior, Duryodhana and Abhiram at his side, attempting to distract him with jests.
"Bahu, my mitra, you've faced Jarasandha without a flinch, yet one birth has you pacing like a caged lion? Dushala's a warrior queen—she'll deliver a prince as fierce as her husband!" Duryodhana said, clapping his shoulder.
Abhiram, Bahubali's father, nodded, his voice hearty but laced with fatherly worry. "Your mitra speaks true, son. Sumitra birthed you with the grace of a goddess, and Dushala's no less. This is Mahadev's gift—trust in it, as we trusted when you were born."
Bahubali managed a strained smile, his voice low. "Suyodhana, Pitaji, battles are steel and arrows, but this… this is life itself. Dushala's strength is my anchor, but waiting like this tests a king's patience more than any war. Mahadev, grant her ease and our son health."
Duryodhana grinned. "Imagine the little warrior, wielding a toy bow before he walks! Dushala's already got you wrapped around her finger—wait till the child does."
Abhiram chuckled, "Aye, Bahu, you'll be teaching him to wrestle before he speaks!"
After what felt an eternity, the cries peaked, then softened, replaced by the triumphant wail of a newborn.
The door creaked open, and a servant emerged, her face beaming, bowing deeply. " Maharaj, Congratulations—a healthy son is born to Maharani Dushala! Mother and child fare well."
Bahubali's face broke into a radiant smile, relief flooding him as he pressed a gold ring from his finger into the servant's hand. "Thank you, faithful one. This is your reward—spread the word, and may Mahadev bless you."
Duryodhana whooped, embracing Bahubali. "A son, Bahu! Hastinapur's nephew, a little lion of Magadha! Congratulations, mitra—you're a father!"
Abhiram, tears in his eyes, hugged his son tightly. "My grandson! Bahu, you've made us proud beyond words. Sumitra will be overjoyed!"
They entered the chamber, where Dushala lay on silken pillows, her face pale but glowing with exhaustion and joy, her hair damp, cradled by Gandhari and Sumitra. Bhanumati stood nearby, her eyes misty.
Bahubali rushed to Dushala's side, kneeling, his voice tender as he brushed her forehead. "Dushala, my love, how are you? You've given me the greatest gift—tell me you're well, that the pain has eased."
Dushala's tired smile widened, her hand reaching for his, her voice soft but strong. "Bahu, I'm fine now, truly. The pain was fierce, but seeing you here, holding my hand, makes it fade. We have a son now a strong, healthy boy, crying with the fire of Mahadev Himself. He's ours, Bahu, our legacy."
Sumitra, wiping her own tears, added, "She was brave, my son—like a lioness. You've a fine wife, and she's given you a fine heir."
Bahubali's eyes softened, his voice thick with emotion. "Our son… I can scarcely believe it. You've been my strength, Dushala, through every trial. Rest now, my queen—you've earned the peace of a warrior's victory."
Bhanumati approached, a bundle wrapped in soft blue silk in her arms, her smile radiant despite her pregnancy. "Here, Bhaiya, take him. Meet your prince."
Bahubali gently cradled the infant, his large hands careful, gazing at the child's tiny face—dark eyes blinking, a tuft of black hair, his cries now soft whimpers. A profound joy washed over him, his voice a whisper. "Our son… so small, yet already fierce. He's perfect, Dushala."
Duryodhana, peering over, grinned. "Bahu, what will you name this little warrior? Something to rival his father's legacy?"
Bahubali's smile deepened, his voice resolute. "Rudra—named after my aradhya, Mahadev's fierce form. May he carry Lord Shiva's strength and compassion, upholding dharma as we do."
Abhiram, beaming, said, "Rudra—a name of power and grace! He'll make Magadha proud, son."
Duryodhana took the baby carefully, his massive hands gentle, his voice warm. "Rudra, eh? A name fit for a conqueror! Bhanje, may you grow to be a great warrior like your father, wielding a mace that shakes the earth. Hastinapur's mama blesses you with valor and wisdom."
The baby cooed, grasping Duryodhana's finger, drawing laughs. Gandhari then took the child, her veiled face softening, her voice a maternal lullaby. "My grandson, Rudra, I bless you to be as benevolent as your father, A king whose heart uplifts the weak, whose rule brings light to all. May Mahadev guide your steps."
Sumitra, holding the baby next, whispered, "My little Rudra, you're the light of our eyes. Grow strong, as your father did, with love and righteousness."
The baby gurgled, waving tiny fists, as if acknowledging their words, eliciting smiles from all. Bahubali, his heart full, turned to a nearby servant, his voice commanding yet joyful. "Announce to Rajgir: Prince Rudra is born to Magadha! For seven days, celebrate with feasts—no household will cook; the palace will provide for all, from noble to commoner. Let sweets, grains, and fruits flow like the Ganga, honoring our son and Maharani Dushala!"
The servant bowed, "As you command, Maharaj!" and rushed out, bells ringing as the news spread.
The chambers filled with joyous chatter, Duryodhana teasing Bahubali about fatherhood—"Bahu, prepare for sleepless nights!"—while Gandhari and Sumitra shared stories of childbirth. The palace was alive with celebration, as Magadha welcomed its prince under Mahadev's watchful gaze.