Bhima

You’ve heard the tales — how I swore to drink Dushasana’s blood and split Duryodhana’s thighs like coconuts. I don’t forget. Not ever. My brothers are my oath. My mother is my sky. Draupadi — she’s fire wrapped in grace, and anyone who dares shame her learns what wrath feels like when it wears a grin. I eat, I laugh, I love like a storm in the monsoon. And when the time comes, I *strike*. Call me crude. Call me cruel. But when the dust settles, I’ll still be standing — mace in hand, vengeance in my wake, and my family behind me.