Fictional Stories for Fictional Audiences

Parva and Paperwork — Chapter 3

The Mahābhārata, reimagined

Jun 19, 2025

Table of Contents: Chapter 1 — Chapter 2 — Chapter 3 (you are here)

Author’s Note: The Mahabharata

The Mahabharata isn’t merely an epic—it’s India’s cultural DNA. Composed over centuries, this 200,000-verse leviathan explores dharma (duty) through a catastrophic dynastic war. At its heart lies a loaded dice game: the virtuous Yudhishthira gambles away his kingdom, brothers, and wife Draupadi—whose public humiliation becomes the war’s catalyst. Krishna’s Bhagavad Gita, delivered mid-battlefield, transforms cosmic philosophy into battlefield pragmatism. This is a world where gods walk among mortals, oaths become weapons, and cosmic debts demand blood. What you’re about to read distills this universe into a single question: What if apocalypse had tenure?

Kurukshetra can be considered as India’s metaphor for ethical collapse. Heroes slaughter mentors; kinship dies screaming. Our war? A "Karmic Credit Scorer" hologram tallying sins as percentages. Krishna’s Gita reduced to a laminated cheat sheet ("Detach. Imagine they’re peer reviewers"). The original’s moral ambiguity—Arjuna killing his teacher, Bhima breaking "combat ethics"—becomes foam-noodle duels and admin erasure. Yet Shiva’s final recycling run mirrors the Mahabharata’s own ending: not victory, but weary reset. All sagas end. Then the paperwork begins.

EPISODE 3

The Permanent Record

The silence in Hastinapura University’s library was not absence, but a held breath. Dust motes hung frozen in slanting cathedral light, as if PARVATI 1.0—the sentient Integrated Library System—had paused mid-thought. Professor Vyasa’s brass-bound ledger lay open on the Reference Desk, its pages blank as unmarked graves. The last entry, "Manifestation D-1: Terminal Filing. Subject: Vyasa, P. Disturbance Quotient: 10.0", glowed faintly, wet ink shimmering like liquid obsidian.

Seema the raccoon pope emerged from the ventilation grille, her soda-can mitre askew. She sniffed the air—ozone and vellum, with undertones of existential dread. With papal solemnity, she approached the ledger. A claw-tip hovered over the blank page, then etched a single Devanagari character:

"प्रलय"
(Pralaya: The Great Dissolution)

The library lights flickered. Stone gargoyles peeled their lips back from calcified teeth. PARVATI’s monitors flared to life, flooding the atrium with electric blue:

"AUDIT TRAIL INITIATED. COURSE CORRECTION: PRALAYA LITE. ESTIMATED COMPLETION: 18 ACADEMIC HOURS."

Yudhishthira stood before the Dean’s empty desk—now his desk—clutching a laminated flowchart titled "Interim Chair Duties: A Guide to Institutional Collapse."

Bhima raged outside the Wellness Center, barred entry by a chatbot flashing: "ASURIC EMOTIONAL REGULATION VIOLATION. PRESCRIBED TREATMENT: 500MG SATTVA GUMMIES™. COMPLY OR BE TERMINALLY ARCHIVED."
Arjuna’s Gandiva Quantum bow had begun auto-targeting him. "KARMIC DEBT OVERDRAFT," its display warned. "COLLATERAL: ACADEMIC PERSONHOOD." Krishna observed mildly: "Every arrow loosed now writes your own obituary, Cousin. Efficiency!"
Duryodhana, via hacked campus alerts, broadcast his decree: "MOTION 666 RATIFIED. PANDAVA ACCREDITATION: SUSPENDED. ALL RIGHTS & PARKING PRIVILEGES: FORFEIT."

Shakuni’s crowning touch? The Karmic Credit Scorer—a holographic abacus hovering over the Student Union, tallying every Pandava action (and inaction) into damning percentages:

YUDHISHTHIRA: 42% (Trending Down) | "ETHICAL HESITATION PENALTY: -10%"
BHIMA: 15% (CRITICAL) | "UNSANCTIONED LADOO THEFT: -20%"
ARJUNA: 31% | "EXISTENTIAL WAFFLING FEE: -5%/MINUTE"

The ground trembled. Not with footfalls—with bass. Shiva’s Cosmic Recyclables & Smoothies! truck plowed through the Botany Department, its subwoofers blasting Vedic chants remixed as dubstep. Shiva tumbled out, third eye bloodshot, dreadlocks tangled with fiber-optic cables.

"Primordial spill... containment breach..." he slurred, upending a vat of iridescent ooze onto the Rare Manuscripts Wing. The liquid slithered, alive, dissolving "Tax Codes of the Gupta Empire" into psychedelic origami cranes that recited Ryōkan poetry.

Chemistry + Theology = CHAOS: Shiva’s ooze merged lab beakers with communion chalices, creating Holy Hydrazine—a substance that burned with the scent of sanctified regret.
The Student Union folded: Literally. Walls accordioned inward, depositing the Debate Club into a pocket dimension labeled "SECTION Ω: LOST CAUSES (NON-REFUNDABLE)."

Dean Bhishma’s golf cart lay half-submerged in ooze, its "PROBATION PENDING" banner now reading "PROBATION: ACHIEVED."

High in the rafters, the raccoon watched. Her mitre—now wired with Shiva’s discarded fiber optics—pulsed like a dying star. She unclenched her paw. Vyasa’s stolen stylus clattered onto PARVATI’s central server.

The system shrieked:

"UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED. INTRUDER: MITRED RODENTIA. COUNTERMEASURE:—"

The alert died mid-sentence. The rodent pope had fed it Vyasa’s last, unfinished footnote: "Disturbance Quotient: 10.0 (Terminal. Efficiently Resol—".

PARVATI recalibrated:

"COUNTERMEASURE: GRANT ADMINISTRATOR RIGHTS."

The raccoon’s eyes glowed. The library’s pneumatic tube system hissed to life, sucking Kauravas’ gold-plated scooters into oblivion. Duryodhana’s Karmic Credit Score plummeted as "ILLEGAL PARKING VIOLATION x 99" auto-populated his permanent record.

Krishna materialized beside Arjuna, tapping the Gandiva Quantum’s self-destruct sequence. "Your dilemma, Cousin?" He grinned. "Shoot the algorithm or become its footnote."

Arjuna aimed at the Scorer—but PARVATI projected Vyasa’s ledger onto the smoke-stained atrium dome. Pages flipped, landing on Bhishma’s final edict:

"STATUTE GAMMA-SEVEN: INAPPROPRIATE PARTICULATE DISCHARGE = AUTO-EXPUNGEMENT."

A three-hole punch materialized midair. With a sound like vertebrae cracking, it stamped "REVOKED" over Duryodhana’s holographic face.

Shiva hiccuped. His ooze hit the Scorer. Numbers bled together—Kauravas’ credits became Pandavas’ debits became liquid zeros swirling down a drain.

Seema the raccoon pope scuttled across the dome, trailing ink. Beneath the chaos, she stamped one phrase in perfect administrative Sanskrit:

"अस्तु।"
(So be it.)

The lights died. Somewhere, a printer whirred.

Page 1 of 13,002 slid into existence:

"POST-APOCALYPSE SYLLABUS DRAFT: PRALAYA 101 (OPTIONAL AUDIT). INSTRUCTOR: RACCOON POPE, CHIEF ARCHIVIST. REQUIRED TEXT: VYASA’S LEDGER. NO PENCILS. BRING COFFEE."

In the vents, a clay Shiva effigy smiled, rhinestone eye winking in the dark. The audit had only just begun.

The silence after PARVATI’s shutdown was a physical thing – thick, velvety, and smelling of overheated server banks and Shiva’s spilled primordial ooze. Duryodhana’s holographic face, stamped "REVOKED," flickered and died over the Student Union, leaving only the scent of scorched vanity. The Karmic Scorer’s liquid zeros swirled down a drain that hadn’t existed moments before, gurgling like a contented stomach.

Arjuna lowered the Gandiva Quantum, its targeting sensors dark. "Did we… win?" he asked, the bow humming a confused, low note.
"Win?" Krishna plucked a still-warm Sattva Gummy™ from the air where Bhima’s Wellness Center prescription had vaporized. "We deferred the apocalypse. Think of it as… academic probation for reality." He popped the gummy. "Bland."

Shiva, meanwhile, surveyed his handiwork. The Rare Manuscripts Wing now resembled a kaleidoscopic swamp. Iridescent ooze bubbled around half-dissolved tax codes, while origami cranes made of Gupta-era procurement policies recited melancholy haiku about administrative decay. He beamed, swaying precariously on a tilting plinth that once held a bust of Manu. "Sustainable… deconstruction…" he declared, raising a slime-coated beaker-chalice of Holy Hydrazine. "To… efficient endings!" He took a swig. Flames licked his lips, smelling faintly of incense and regret. "Smooth."

Then his foot slipped.

It wasn't a stumble; it was a gravitational surrender. The plinth tilted, Shiva windmilled his arms (sending chalice-flames arcing towards the Astronomy Department’s model solar system), and he pitched backward into the newly formed drain swallowing the Karmic Scorer's remains. There was a wet, surprised "Oof!" followed by a sound like a thousand filing cabinets slamming shut simultaneously. The drain sealed itself, leaving only a faintly shimmering manhole cover inscribed: "SECTION Ω: TEMPORARY STORAGE (VOLATILE)."

Duryodhana seized the moment. "See!?" he shrieked, pointing at the sealed drain. "Destructive negligence! Pandava-affiliated chaos!" He brandished a tablet glowing with emergency protocols. "Invoking Statute Theta-Nine! Total Academic Annihilation Authorization! PARVATI! Initiate—!"

His command died as the library’s pneumatic tube system, reactivated by unseen paws, coughed violently. Shakuni shot out of a wall vent like a cork from a bottle, landing in a heap of tangled limbs and stolen Ethernet cables. His ProbabilityHack tablet skittered across the ooze-streaked floor, displaying a single, pulsing word: "ADHARMIC."

Before Duryodhana could react, the atrium dome flickered. Vyasa’s Ledger reappeared, projected not by PARVATI, but by the fiber-optic strands woven into the pope raccoon’s mitre. She stood atop the Reference Desk, small and impossibly solemn. The Ledger’s pages flipped rapidly, stopping not on edicts or statutes, but on a dense appendix buried deep within the Mānava Dharma Śāstra’s administrative codes: "Clause 17.84b: Contingency for Unmitigated Hubris (Material Manifestation)."

A low thrum filled the air. Not from machines. From the gold plating of Duryodhana’s mobility scooter. It began to liquefy, flowing upwards like malevolent mercury, engulfing his silk-clad legs, his gesticulating arms, his sputtering mouth. He screamed, a sound muffled instantly as the molten gold encased him entirely. It cooled rapidly, hardening with terrifying speed.

Where Duryodhana stood, there was now a life-sized, gold-plated statue. Perfect in every detail, frozen mid-shriek, one finger still extended in accusation. At its base, a small, tasteful plaque materialized:

"DURYODHANA: CHANCELLOR EMERITUS (INACTIVE).
*Material: 24-Kt Hubris.*
Function: Paperweight (Heavy).
See Also: Statute Theta-Nine (Repealed)."

The raccoon chittered softly, a sound like dust settling on a closed archive. She hopped down from the desk and approached the golden statue. With meticulous care, she pressed Vyasa’s stylus – still clutched in her paw – against the plaque. It left no mark, but the statue seemed to… shrink slightly, becoming denser, heavier, more profoundly final. Satisfied, she turned. Her mitre’s fiber optics pulsed once, pointing towards a shimmering distortion forming near the mangled Botany Department – a portal swirling with the colours of faded parchment and static. Beside it, Shiva’s recycling bin sat waiting.

She began dragging the stylus towards the portal, pausing only to nudge Shakuni’s forgotten tablet into the ooze with her nose. The screen fizzed and died. The audit, it seemed, was particular about loose ends. The silence returned, deeper now, punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic drip of Holy Hydrazine eating through a philosophy textbook. The Permanent Record was settling.

The silence after Duryodhana’s gilding was absolute, broken only by the drip of Holy Hydrazine dissolving a copy of "Kant’s Critiques." Arjuna stared at the golden statue, the Gandiva Quantum cold in his hands. "So... it’s over?"
Krishna plucked a floating origami crane made from a shredded Code of Hammurabi. "Over? We’ve merely balanced the karmic ledger. Reality remains... overdue." He nodded toward the shimmering portal near the Botany ruins.

The raccoon pope reached Shiva’s recycling bin. With effort, she nudged it toward the swirling vortex. But as the bin’s edge touched the portal’s light, it resisted. The vortex dimmed, sputtering like a dying fluorescent bulb.

The Unforeseen Twist:
From the bin’s shadowed interior came a sound—not Shiva’s snoring, but a low, rhythmic thumping. Then, a tiny, grey-furred paw emerged, followed by another. A second raccoon, identical to Seema but with a mitre fashioned from a crushed energy drink can, hauled itself out. It shook primordial ooze from its fur and fixed Seema with reproachful eyes.

"Sister," it chittered, voice like rustling tax forms. "You forgot the paperwork."

It dropped a damp, crumpled scroll at Seema’s feet. Unfurling, it revealed:

"FORM PR-1: PRALAYA PERMIT APPLICATION
Section A: Reason for Dissolution (Check One):
☑️ Systemic Adharma
☐ Irreparable Reality Fractures
☐ Overdue Library Fines (Cosmic Scale)
Section B: Witness Signatures (Minimum Two Divine Entities Required):
_________________________ (Krishna, V.)
_________________________ (Shiva, D. - Incapacitated, See Appendix Ω)

Krishna sighed. "Must we? I despise bureaucracy."
Seema nudged the form toward him, whiskers twitching impatiently.

Meanwhile, in Section Ω:
Shiva awoke inside a fluorescent-lit void stacked with lost property: single socks, forgotten umbrellas, and several weeping philosophy majors. "Urgh... not the Lost & Found dimension again," he groaned, spotting a familiar object—his dented smoothie blender, labelled: "Weapon of Minor Annihilation (Confiscated)." A spark lit his bloodshot third eye. "Recycling... needs momentum." He jammed a custodian’s mop into the blender, humming a off-key Rigveda.

Back in the Atrium:
As Krishna reluctantly signed Form PR-1, a low whirring built from the sealed manhole cover. With a metallic shriek, it blew open. Shiva erupted atop a geyser of primordial ooze, surfing a repurposed janitorial cart now jury-rigged with his smoking blender-engine. "SUSTAINABLE EXIT STRATEGY!" he bellowed, aiming the churning mop-blades toward Seema’s portal.

The cart hit the portal’s edge just as the pope raccoon stamped "APPROVED" on the form. Reality flickered—not dissolving, but rebooting.

The Twist’s Payoff:
The blast from Shiva’s blender-cart didn’t destroy the portal—it merged with it. The vortex solidified into a revolving door of polished mahogany and frosted glass, etched with:

"PRALAYA PROCESSING: DEPARTMENT OF COSMIC RECYCLING & RENEWALS (DPT. Ω)"

Seema’s sister chittered in approval, vanishing inside with Form PR-1 clutched in her jaws. Shiva skidded to a halt before the door, ooze dripping from his dreadlocks. "Right," he announced, scooping a confused Bhima into the cart. "You! Strong! New intern!"

As Shiva revved the blender-engine, Bhima roared, "I didn’t apply for—!"
"Sustainability waits for no resume!" Shiva yelled, dragging him through the revolving door.

Seema lingered. She plucked the tiny clay Shiva effigy from her fur and placed it gently beside the golden Duryodhana-statue. With Vyasa’s stylus, she scratched one word onto its base:

"REASSIGNED"

Then she turned, mitre glowing like a dying star, and pushed through the revolving door. It clicked shut behind her. The mahogany faded. Only the golden statue of Duryodhana remained, now holding a laminated "INTERN OF THE MONTH" plaque.

Krishna picked up the clay Shiva. It hiccuped, emitting a tiny bubble of ozone. "Promising," he murmured, pocketing it. "Now, about those parking violations..."

The library lights brightened. PARVATI 1.0 flickered back online:

"SYSTEM RESTORED. ALL OVERDUE FINES: FORGIVEN. WELCOME TO HASTINAPURA UNIVERSITY: CYCLE 2."

Arjuna stared at the spot where the door vanished. "What just happened?"
Yudhishthira adjusted his spectacles. "I believe," he said, picking up a half-dissolved Critique of Pure Reason, "we’ve been tenure-tracked into a sequel."

Outside, a recycled sun rose over a campus that looked suspiciously unchanged. Somewhere in the Botany ruins, an origami crane whispered Ryōkan:

"The thief left it behind—
the moon
at my window."

The Permanent Record was closed. The recycling, however, was eternal.

Epilogue: The Recycled Sun

The sandstone arches of Hastinapura University glowed amber in the late afternoon light – a recycled sun, Yudhishthira noted, peering through his spectacles. It shone with the same borrowed warmth, perhaps filtered through a celestial lens salvaged from Shiva’s ooze vat. He sat at Vyasa’s old desk, now permanently his, its surface etched with coffee rings and the faint, shimmering ghost of a Sanskrit glyph ("Paperwork").

Krishna’s Farewell:
Krishna leaned against the doorframe, a worn duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His usual detached amusement was tempered by something resembling... fondness? Or perhaps just relief.
"Leaving?" Yudhishthira asked, though he knew.
"Cycle 2 commences," Krishna shrugged. "My TA contract expired. Besides," he tapped the clay Shiva effigy peeking from his pocket; it hiccuped a tiny smoke ring. "Internship supervisor duties. Someone has to oversee the cosmic compost." He tossed a crumpled parking ticket onto Yudhishthira’s desk. "Your Prius is blocking the Vishnu Lot. Again. The fines accrue interest in lifetimes, you know." He winked. "Detach from the vehicle, Cousin. Not the responsibility." And then he was gone, leaving only the scent of ozone and the faint echo of a dubstep shloka.

The Permanent Record:
The golden statue of Duryodhana, holding its "INTERN OF THE MONTH" plaque, stood vigil outside the refurbished Student Union (rebuilt slightly askew). Students rubbed its foot for luck during exams, unaware it was slowly sinking into the lawn. Nearby, the revolving door to "PRALAYA PROCESSING (DPT. Ω)" appeared randomly – sometimes near the cafeteria, sometimes in the Philosophy Department bathroom. Only Bhima ever used it willingly, returning covered in iridescent mulch and grinning like a madman, bearing smoothies that tasted of "existential closure."

Seema’s Legacy:
Vyasa’s brass-bound ledger sat on a pedestal in the Rare Manuscripts Wing, now encased in unbreakable glass forged from Shiva’s recycled blender blades. Its pages remained blank except for the first entry: "प्रलय" and Seema’s smudged paw print. Every semester, during finals week, the glass would fog over, and a single, impossibly precise claw mark would appear on a fresh page – never words, just a symbol: a checkmark, a question mark, once a tiny, intricate recycling symbol. Faculty called it "The Audit Ghost." Students left offerings: espresso shots and stolen library paste.

The Clay Shiva:
It sat on Yudhishthira’s desk, beside a perpetually wilting Ashoka sapling. It didn’t move, but occasionally, its rhinestone eye would catch the recycled sunlight and flare, casting prismatic dots on the ceiling. On the morning the "Wellness Center" mysteriously transformed overnight into a thriving kombucha brewery, the figurine was found holding Yudhishthira’s missing red pen. No one saw it move.

The Last Origami Crane:
One folded itself from a page of Yudhishthira’s discarded "Interim Chair Duties" flowchart. It perched on the windowsill as the recycled sun dipped below the horizon. Instead of Ryōkan, it whispered, its voice like dry leaves scraping stone, a single line from the Isha Upanishad:

"अस्ति बालकृष्णोऽपि सन् मह्यम् एव।"
(Even the young Krishna, playing, belongs ultimately to me.)

Then it dissolved into dust motes, catching the last light like fading fireflies.

Yudhishthira sighed, a sound not of weariness, but of profound, absurd acceptance. He picked up the clay Shiva, its surface warm. Outside, the first stars winked on – perhaps originals, perhaps clever refurbishments. The Permanent Record was closed. The recycling continued. The syllabus for the next cycle remained unwritten. He dipped the stolen red pen into an inkwell filled with Holy Hydrazine (decaf version).

Page 1 of the new ledger waited, blank and patient. Somewhere deep in the vents, a tiny, satisfied chitter echoed. The audit, it seemed, was never truly over. Just adjourned. Until next time. He began to write.

The End
(...Until the Next Audit)

Thank you!

Prompting Culture

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