And that was all the motivation he needed. He raised his bow hand, triumphant, his muscles taut, his golden armour shining like the sun. The crowd cheered mightily. The women sighed, looking after him with dewy eyes. Karna brought his arm down, parallel to the ground, his bow aimed straight at the Namins in their tiers, to the shock of many onlookers. The other tiers erupted. There was no need for any music. The chants of his brethren and sympathizers filled the arena with one resounding voice: Karna! Karna! Karna! It felt good.

The chariot had traversed half the arena when he passed Draupadi’s platform. Their eyes locked for a moment, at once fleeting yet lasting an eternity. In her eyes he saw something more beautiful than the stars. Karna’s stomach coiled in knots when the colour rushed to her cheeks upon seeing him. Hard as he had tried, the melody of their dance had plagued his mind like a sweet endless lullaby. She had danced with him despite the mark on his neck. Duryodhan was right. The fact that she had conveyed to him the secret of the tournament meant she burned in the same fire he did. Sometimes, all the answers of the universe lay in someone else’s hand.

The charioteer’s whistle brought the steeds to a prancing halt where they had started. Karna leapt nimbly from the chariot, smiling mindlessly at the prosect of kissing Draupadi’s red lips and caressing her fiery hair, even as the world chanted his name. Duryodhan was right. Karna would show them all.

SHAKUNI guffawed as no one showed up to volunteer first. Cravens all. Not Karna, though. The lad could hardly wait to jump the barrier, shoot the fish and claim his love, but Shakuni kept him on a tight leash. No need to show off your strength unless it actually embarrasses someone.

The announcer finally took matters into his own hands, and reading from a list, called: ‘Patcharanihanta, Lord of Karusha!’ The Karushan stepped forward warily. He wore a blue cloak, and beneath it, a shining suit of green.

‘I’ll wager he won’t even be able to lift the bow,’ Shakuni said. He unabashedly enjoyed the prospect of the Royals failing. For a change, he was not the laughing stock.

‘I will take your wager, Lord of Gandhar,’ Bhurishravas said, raising his goblet. ‘A gold sovereign that he at least displaces the bow from its place.’

Shakuni nodded his acceptance. Lord Patcharanihanta’s spotted hand looked like a chicken claw as he extended it to raise the bow. His brow furrowed in waves of tension, and a throbbing blood vessel leapt out on his forehead. The bow moved four fingers before he gave up, heaving and panting.

‘Well earned, Shakuni,’ Bhurishravas laughed. ‘One more?’

‘I won against a Balkhan,’ Shakuni said cheerfully. ‘I am going to savour it.’