Yudhishthira and His Dog - At the Gates of Heaven

The climb had taken years. Or perhaps hours. Time moved strangely on the path to heaven.

Behind Yudhishthira, in order of their falling: Draupadi, who had loved Arjuna most and fell first for that partiality. Sahadeva, who had been proud of his wisdom. Nakula, who had been proud of his beauty. Arjuna, who had been proud of his skill. And finally Bhima, who had been proud of his strength.

Yudhishthira: "Continue. This is the test. Continue."

Now, at the gates of heaven, only a dog walked beside him. A stray he had picked up somewhere on the journey. It had followed without asking for anything, simply present, simply loyal.

Indra / The Dog (Yama): "Yudhishthira. You have earned your place. Enter heaven in your mortal body—a rare honor."

Yudhishthira: "And my brothers? Draupadi?"

Indra / The Dog (Yama): "They will come eventually, after paying karmic debts. But you—you go now."

Yudhishthira moved toward the chariot. The dog followed.

Indra / The Dog (Yama): "The animal cannot enter. Leave it."

Yudhishthira: "It has followed me the entire journey. It has done nothing wrong."

Indra / The Dog (Yama): "It's a dog. There are no dogs in heaven. The rules are clear."

Yudhishthira stopped.

Yudhishthira: "Then I'll stay."

Indra / The Dog (Yama): "What?"

Yudhishthira: "If the dog cannot enter, I won't enter. I've abandoned enough on this journey. I won't abandon one more loyal being."

Indra / The Dog (Yama): "You would give up heaven for a dog?"

Yudhishthira: "I would give up heaven for dharma. Abandoning those who love you is not righteous. This creature has followed me faithfully. It has expected nothing but my company. If heaven has no room for such loyalty, then heaven is not for me."

Indra's face flickered between anger and something else—amusement? Pride?

Indra / The Dog (Yama): "The dog is dying anyway. It's old. It suffers. Letting it go would be mercy."

Yudhishthira: "Then I'll stay until it dies. And if I die with it, so be it."

Indra / The Dog (Yama): "You are being foolish."

Yudhishthira: "I am being consistent. A lifetime of dharma cannot end with abandoning the helpless. That would make everything before meaningless."

The dog's tail wagged. Just once. A small movement in the vast silence.

Indra / The Dog (Yama): "This is truly your choice? Hell over heaven, for a dog?"

Yudhishthira: "This is truly my choice."

The dog began to change. It grew. Its form shifted, became luminous. Where an old, tired stray had stood, Yama now rose—Yudhishthira's divine father, the god of death and dharma.

YAMA: "You passed."

Yudhishthira: "Father?"

YAMA: "The final test. Would you abandon the lowest creature for the highest reward? You would not. That is dharma—not in the grand gestures, but in the small loyalties that no one sees."

Yudhishthira: "The dog was you all along?"

YAMA: "The dog was a question. You answered correctly."

Indra laughed—a genuine laugh.

INDRA: "In all the ages, few have refused heaven. Most calculate: the dog is just a dog, heaven is forever. But you saw what they didn't—that how we treat the least of beings reveals who we truly are."

Yudhishthira: "May I enter now? With my brothers? With Draupadi?"

YAMA: "They are already here. Their 'falling' was another test—of you, not them. Would you turn back for the fallen? You didn't. Not because you didn't love them, but because you understood that your journey was not theirs to interrupt."

Yudhishthira: "I wanted to turn back. Every time."

YAMA: "We know. The wanting is what makes the not-turning meaningful."

The gates opened. Beyond them, Yudhishthira saw—briefly, impossibly—everyone he had lost. His father. His mother. His brothers. Draupadi. Even enemies, now at peace.

YAMA: "Enter. Not as a reward for being good, but as a recognition of staying good when no one was watching."

Yudhishthira walked through.

Behind him, where the dog had been, nothing remained but the faint impression of loyalty—the kind that doesn't need heaven to be valuable.