Destiny In Her Hands (Vidhoosh)
Before Krishna whispered destiny,
I existed.
Beyond name, beyond birth,
Beyond their fragile rules of dharma.
I walked unseen
Through Hastinapur’s royal corridors,
My footsteps louder than Bhishma’s vow.
They called me victim,
Thought my voice could be silenced.
Desire for choice, for justice that cannot be chained.
They tried to make me shame,
Rejected, wounded.
I refused the rules of men,
Even when written in the stars.
I refused.
I shed Amba like skin,
Not just to become Shikhandi.
But as a question in flesh.
Who decides destiny?
What law calls itself dharma,
When it ignores the living heart?
I am the storm beneath the battlefield,
The whisper that topples kingdoms,
I am the equation behind every fall,
The shadow tilting cosmos’ balance.
Every arrow I guide, every move I make,
A proof.
Destiny is not written by men.
It is felt, embodied, enforced by the unseen.
While Krishna speaks,
I live it, question it, remake it.
I bend the rules of existence.
When Bhishma falls,
Not defeated by Arjuna,
But me.
I did not kill Bhishma.
I killed the illusion of impartial fate,
Shattered the lie that women are passive,
That desire is weak,
That vengeance is vulgar.
The unseen architect,
The eternal force,
The woman who became more than flesh,
Not the chapter you wrote,
Nor the adjective you assigned;
The silence between the lines,
The storm you failed to record.
The voice that no counsel can silence.
The voice of choice in a world of obligation.
I am the wheel of fate. I am not victim.
I am defiance beneath dharma.
I am the story you could never finish.
I am Amba.
