The Panchalan Royals were worried about repercussions from the Ksharja Lords, especially Hastina, who would take this as a slight. Satrajit nodded to Dhrishtadyumna, who purposefully walked to the Captain of the Guards and gave instructions. The crowd in the galleries was visibly drunk and boisterous. The Panchalan Guard filled the space between the common folk and the King, preparing for violence.

‘May I try?’ a voice spoke in dulcet tones from amongst the poorer ranks of Namins in the lower gallery on the left.

Despite himself, Karna’s eyes shot up at the voice. Bun wrapped in a rosary, crematory ash from post mortem rituals on his face, the man was a living testament to the fact that high caste did not necessarily mean high living. Even the other Namins in his tier had given him a wide berth. From the unwashed matted hair to the skull cup in his hand, it was easily discerned that he was an Aghori.

Bhairava or the Snake Ascetic might now be an Old God in the North, but the Aghoris tenaciously held to his faith. And in their zeal, they exhibited unparalleled severity in their eremitic penances and macabre rituals. With the soul-power they possessed by virtue of such practices, Aghoris were known to sprout Shraps easily, without blinking. But it had been long since any Aghori had been known to have uttered an effective Shrap. Avarice and contempt for the rest of humanity had dampened their soul-energy, and hence their ability to utter a Shrap. But that did not dampen the reverence and fear the Aghoris commanded among their fellow Namins.

‘Why Aghori, dead bodies aren’t exciting you enough these days?’ one of the suitors jeered. Many of the Ksharjas and Drachmas burst into raucous laughter.

‘Go back to your prayers, Namin! No place for you here!’

‘Maybe he will smear ash on the bow and make it light.’

More catcalls and taunts followed, met with ghastly stares from the Namin faction, though they dared not respond with words. If the Aghori failed, their entire community would be shamed. Some Namins whispered to the aspiring suitor to back down, but the Aghori remained standing, flashing a winning smile with ash-smeared lips. These were not the only whispers, however. In hushed tones, the older and more conservative Ksharjas warned the younger ones of the certainty of curses and hellfire for taunting the Namins.

But the Aghori simply walked to the archway in the centre of the arena and dropped the tiger-skin cloak from his shoulders. His body put Ksharja warriors to shame. Tall and lean, he stalked like a leopard and bowed with folded hands before Drupad, his bone cup hanging from the corded belt that tied the deerhide skirt he wore.

Drupad’s face contorted with the dilemma he now faced. Refusing the savage would invite the wrath of the Namin community, but to allow him to participate would disrespect the Kings and Princes in attendance. Caught in a bad place, he looked unsure and wretched. His face turned to Krishna who nodded, more than pleased to save the day, again.