Bhurishravas laughed weakly. Karna too, momentarily forgot his woe, mesmerized by the feat. If there was anything more important to him than honour, it was pride in his skill with the bow. And nothing was more thrilling to a man like him than to face an equally skilled foe.

As they watched, other ash-smeared Aghoris emerged from the crowd, members of the cult. Prince Satrajit looked on uneasily, unsure what to do. Dhrishtadyumna seemed to have swallowed a slug. As for Draupadi, her face was a mask of horror. She stood trembling, ready to flee. Karna saw Krishna holding her arm firmly. Draupadi looked up towards the royal platform where her father sat, hoping for a command that would reverse the outcome; something that would rescue her from a life with an Aghori. But Drupad sat stone-faced. Dhrishtadyumna too, looked to his father for guidance, but receiving none, merely stood like a stuffed effigy.

Next to Karna, Shakuni snorted. ‘I hope the irony of this is not lost on the Princess. She refused a life in a stable to settle for a cremation ground.’

SHISHUPAL felt unsettled by the furore around him, which was suited more to a swarm of stablehands than a gathering of champions. Some of the Namins had jumped over the barricades and raised the Aghori onto their shoulders for a victory parade. It was rather unbecoming of the Northern Namins, otherwise reputed for their austere conduct.

Draupadi rose, muttered something to Krishna. Shishupal saw Krishna urgently whisper into her ear, but Draupadi pulled away from his grasp. The cheering paused. The music screeched to a halt. Eyes turned towards her. Black eyes glinting with malice and hate. Apart from the vague creaking of the revolving wheel, the arena grew silent. All wanted to hear what the Princess had to say.

‘I will not marry an Aghori!’

Shakuni chuckled. Guards marched. Namins roared. After that it was a blur. The Aghori, who had been carried on high, was forgotten. Someone shouted from the Resht gallery: ‘If it is her choice not to marry a Resht, then it is her choice not to marry a Namin!’

‘How dare you compare a Resht to a Namin? Blasphemy! We will not stand for this!’ a Namin shouted.

‘What do you mean, you bald fucker? Do you think we Reshts are lower than you?’

‘You are a cur, Resht! How dare you even speak to me!’

‘I do not wish to speak to you, sod, but I will spit on you!’ Saying which, the Resht spat in the Namin’s face.

The Namins reacted as if a temple had been desecrated. They jumped on the offending Resht, kicking him. Another section of Namins shouted, ‘We’ll see how the Princess does not marry this Aghori!’ Climbing down from their galleries and rows, they rushed towards the dais, the tufts on their bald shiny heads bobbling in excitement.