Swayamvars were quirky ways for the powerful to bestow their daughters in marriage. There were the auction swayamvars, the pageant swayamvars, the tournament swayamvars, the heavy-bow-lifting swayamvars, the find-and-kiss-the-sleeping-princess swayamvars, the slay-the-local-monster swayamvars, the blindfold swayamvars, and even the solve-a-riddle swayamvars for the more intellectually inclined. Recent liberalism had even seen a few swayamvars where the man chose his wife from amongst a cache of willing participants. No two swayamvars were ever the same, but the basic premise was that the bride-to-be could choose her tormentor for life from amongst the assembled suitors. Over the centuries, different interpretations had been given for ‘choice’. But none of these ever mistook ‘choice’ to ever mean choice of the bride herself. The Panchalan Swayamvar Jarasandh spoke of, was of the winner-takes-it-all kind.

Shishupal had no interest whatsoever in swayamvars. It was a cock-fest with a lot of chest-thumping and tail-flashing. He already knew where this was going. His idiot brother would be asked to vie for Draupadi’s hand. Well, it was about time Dantavakra settled down. Shishupal leaned back in his chair and took a sip from his goblet.

‘She would also bring prestige to the Chedi family.’

‘Indeed, Your Grace.’

‘So, I have decided that you will go to Panchal, and I will accompany you.’

Senses infused with the wondrous wine, he murmured, ‘Yes, Your Grace.’ Suddenly, he noticed Lady Rasha’s eyes flash towards him, a wicked smile on her lips. Hastily, he played the Emperor’s words in his mind again. The hot wine spilled onto his lap. ‘Your Grace…I…I am honoured, but I am a married man!’ Shishupal protested feebly. Everyone knew he and his wife were estranged, that she lived in Chedi with their son.

‘So?’ Lady Rasha enquired, brows uplifted in gentle malice. ‘That didn’t stop Krishna from having three wives. Why should it stop you at one?’

Shishupal fumbled for a legal defence but came up empty-handed. ‘But...but…’ he stammered. ‘Surely, my brother…’

‘Is best suited to prance on a stage for the best-looking horse,’ remarked Lady Rasha.

Shishupal could not disagree with this assessment. If this was a pageantry-swayamvar, no doubt Dantavakra would have been the prized stallion to put your money on. Damn. ‘But Your Grace…’

‘Let me clear the confusion, Shishupal. This is not a request. You will go to this swayamvar, wear the finest perfumes coin can buy, and strut like a flamingo before the Princess till she drops her petticoat and begs you to give her the heir to Chedi. Remember the words of Magadh: We Do Not Bow. You are one of the finest swordsmen we have, an Imperial Contest winner. You will win the Panchalan girl and her army for me! I will have the smithy forge an Assyrian sword for you. We leave at first light, day after.’