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.

‘Considering there is no suitor left,’ Krishna said calmly, ‘surely there can be no harm in letting a poor Namin try his luck? After the events that have transpired, it would at least be entertaining. It might even remind certain classes not to impinge on the domain of the Ksharjas.’ This was met with murmurs of assent from the crowd.

‘I don’t like it when Krishna speaks,’ Shakuni said. ‘Everything he says feels like a move on a chess board.’

‘This is my daughter’s swayamvar,’ Drupad said finally. ‘As Goddess Prakioni is my witness, I have permitted anyone who wished to participate to do so in a fair manner.’

‘Fair he says…’ someone snorted loudly

Drupad ignored him. ‘Aghori! I permit you.’

Some of the suitors objected to this with loud roars, but there were many who were satisfied as there was nothing more gratifying than a Namin being shown his place. The Aghori bowed to Drupad and casually strolled to the great bow. He folded his hands in reverence. Then, with one swift move, he raised it high, as if it was a child’s toy.

‘Karna!’ Shakuni’s voice was urgent.

‘I saw.’

The Aghori stared down at the bowl of water, the bow not moving a hair in his grip.

‘He is going to do it,’ Karna said, observing his posture. Others around Karna heard his words with shock.

‘I hope he does,’ Bhurishravas spat. ‘It is what she deserves.’

The Aghori drew the bowstring and let the arrow whistle upward. All eyes were on the reflection of the fish on the mirrors in the corners of the arena. Karna saw the strike before he heard the cheers. Like approaching thunder, hundreds of Namins shouted and hurrahed in ecstasy, waving their orange scarves in the air, throwing their marigold flowers, reserved for the wedding ceremony, at the Aghori archer. Many of them descended to the ground, raising the Aghori onto their shoulders. No elephants, however, trumpeted the triumph. The drum-beaters stood dumbfounded, awaiting instructions. But there was no need for music. The jubilant chants of the Namins filled the arena and rose into the heavens. The fish remained on the wheel, its eye pierced by the arrow.

‘Well, that was unprecedented,’ remarked Shakuni. ‘And quite the scandal!’ Suddenly, he grinned. ‘I should never have doubted a swayamvar.’