‘I know…’ Karna clasped the back of his nephew’s head as he touched his forehead to the boy’s. None in the arena, save the two of them, could in that moment fathom the dream of the countless Reshts, that Karna was about to fulfil by simply stepping into the back of a chariot.

And so it was that the suitors rode in chariots drawn by matched horses, sitting in haughty silence, brandishing their weapons of choice. The scene was rather heroic, and the musicians outdid themselves playing different tunes for each suitor. Karna found himself behind Vrihatkshatra, the Kekeya Chieftain from the West.

Once the Kekeya had proudly circled the arena, unsheathed sword in hand, the announcer finally called: Karna, Lord Highmaster of Anga! Karna rose. He had decided not to wear a shirt for he certainly could not afford anything as expensive-looking as his own breastplate. The best part was that none suspected it was part of his skin, for it passed off as a thin gold-coated chainmail shirt. He saw his chariot being led into the enclosure, the snow white steeds boasting tasteful saddle-cloths glittering with topaz. Where are the horses I rented?

The stableboy leading in the horses handed him a tightly rolled scroll, the wax seal embossed with the red eagle of the Hastina Union. Karna broke the seal and unrolled the parchment: Your time has come, my friend. The arena is all yours. I know you will win. And by winning, you will achieve what you have wanted all your life –a place amongst heroes that is rightfully yours. Show them!

Karna felt the salty taste of tears on his lips. With one fluid movement, he climbed into the chariot. I really wish you were here, My Prince. But Sudama more than made up for the lack of his closest companion. Karna glanced up at the young face: no malice. No ambition. Guileless. Sudama was on his feet, cheering from the stands as if his life depended on it.

The Panchalan crowd cheered as well when the horses took off. The cheers are not for you, Resht, a voice in his head reminded him. They are cheering everyone who passes. But as he looked at the Resht tiers, and then the Drachma ones, he saw the fervour in their eyes. They were looking at him, shouting with elation and joy. The women in a few tiers gasped as he passed, and one even parted her robe to expose a breast. Karna looked away, blushing. And there he saw the bald heads in the orange tiers, complaining bitterly amongst themselves, their disgruntled faces betraying their anger that a Resht was riding in the chariot instead of driving it. The Namins are cursing me, Karna realised in sudden amusement.