The grand Swayamvar platform rose in the northeast of the city, chosen with precision upon an auspicious stretch of even ground, where the blessings of fate and the whispers of destiny intertwined. It stood like a celestial stage, a meeting place adorned with the finest craftsmanship, embraced on all sides by elegant mansions and towering palaces that bore witness to the gathering of the greatest warriors and kings of the age.

A protective wall encircled the entire arena, its formidable presence mirrored by a deep moat, an unbroken line of defense against those who might dare to trespass upon this sacred moment. Majestic gates, carved with divine emblems, marked the entrances, and above, a canopy of vibrant silks stretched endlessly, a cascade of colors swaying gently with the passing breeze.

The air thrummed with the melodious symphony of conch shells, veenas, and mridangas, their harmonious echoes mingling with the fragrance of agaru and the sweet scent of fresh blossoms that draped the pillars and archways. The ground, sprinkled with the incredible essence of sandalwood water, exuded an ethereal freshness, welcoming all who stepped within.

Surrounding the grand pavilion were splendid white palaces, luminous as the snow-capped peaks of Kailash, their grandeur a testament to the wealth and might of their owners. Each structure kissed the heavens, crowned with golden domes that gleamed under the midday sun. Windows of exquisite gold trellises framed their facades, casting intricate light patterns upon the floors. At the same time, the walls shimmered with inlaid mosaics of sapphires, rubies, and emeralds, each precious stone catching the radiance of the day and turning it into a celestial glow.

The broad and smooth stairways invited noble feet with their seamless ascent, leading to balconies and terraces where rows of intricately carved seats awaited their guests. These seats were not of ordinary make nor common origin; they were draped in fabrics of unparalleled luxury, untouched by the hands of mere villagers. White as the feathers of a swan, their surfaces bore the rich aroma of agaru, its intoxicating fragrance drifting across the arena, lingering even a yojana away, carrying with it the whispers of wealth and refinement.

Each palace chamber was a fortress of magnificence, adorned with a hundred doors. Its chambers were lavishly furnished with silken couches and gleaming thrones. The beds, inlaid with gold and silver, were adorned with intricate carvings, their presence akin to the soaring peaks of the Himalayas, where the gods themselves might find solace.

Within these opulent halls, seated upon high terraces and balconies, were the mighty kings—warriors of renown, rulers of vast dominions. Each bore the pride of countless victories, their presence a spectacle of grandeur. Their bodies were adorned with garlands and draped in robes embroidered with threads of gold and pearls. Their foreheads bore the sacred mark of their lineage; their chests were smeared with the rich paste of black agar, its musky scent mingling with the crisp air of anticipation.

They were the tigers among kings, these monarchs of power and prestige. Protectors of dharma, upholders of truth, and patrons of wisdom sat with an air of composed arrogance, their gazes scanning the gathering with a quiet intensity. The world revered them—not merely for the lands they ruled but for the righteousness they upheld, the honour they bore, and the battles fought not only with steel but with the strength of their conviction.

The stage was set.

The air vibrated with expectation as warriors, sages, and monarchs alike waited with bated breath—for the moment fate would lift its veil, and destiny would cast its die.

The Stage is Set

Drupada walked towards the Swayamvar grounds, flanked by Shikhandi and Dhrishtadyumna, his regal stride exuding authority and anticipation. His keen eyes swept over his city's assembled kings, princes, and nobles. Among the sea of dignitaries, Brahmanas, and warriors, he sought only one—the son of Indra, Arjuna. Yet, despite his searching gaze, the mighty warrior was nowhere to be seen.

His eyes, however, lingered on another—Vasusena, radiant and composed, his golden armor shimmering under the sun. A fleeting moment of curiosity passed through Drupada's mind—why had this valiant warrior been given the last seat? Before he could dwell further, his gaze caught sight of Shri Krishna of Dwaraka seated among the spectators. A realization dawned upon him—Krishna and the entire Yadava clan had vowed to remain mere witnesses to this event, much like the Adityas and Rudras gazing upon the mortal realm. Drupada knew not why, but he accepted it without question.

Taking a deep breath, his voice rose, regal and unwavering across the gathering, "Welcome, O assembled kings and noble warriors. Each of you has gathered here today for a singular purpose. My daughter, Krishnaa, was born of fire, and with her birth, Agni Deva himself bestowed upon her a divine bow—Kindhura. Thus, the trial for this Swayamvar is set: The one who strings this mighty bow fastens these five adorned arrows and strikes the right eye of the revolving fish while gazing only at its reflection in the oil below shall win her hand."

A wave of anticipation swept through the crowd. Like the surging ocean teeming with porpoises, a deafening roar erupted from the assembled kings, citizens, sages, and Brahmanas. The excitement was palpable, thick in the air like an impending storm.

Amidst the gathering, five Brahmanas sat quietly, their presence unnoticed by most. Yet, they were far from ordinary. They were the Pandavas in disguise, accompanied by Niyati, their sister. Their eyes, however, sought only one among the crowd.

A ripple of concern passed between them when they finally spotted Vasusena, seated at the end alongside Yuyutsu. Bhima, unable to contain himself, was the first to speak. His voice, a low growl of restrained fury, reached his brothers.

"Why have our Jyeshta and Yuyutsu been given the last seat while Suyodhana sits in the front? Why would Raja Drupada allow this insult?"

Arjuna, though equally troubled, kept his composure. His voice was steady, filled with unwavering faith, "It does not matter where he is seated. I have no doubt—he alone will lift and string Kindhura. Agni Deva gave this divine bow, and none but our Jyeshta possesses the strength and right to wield it."

While the discussion simmered among the brothers, Niyati's attention lay elsewhere. Her gaze shifted between Dau Balarama and Shri Krishna, her heart reading the silent emotions within them. She saw concern in Balarama's eyes—unspoken, yet heavy. But in Krishna's gaze, there was only love and trust, a quiet certainty in his sister's destiny. A soft smile played on Niyati's lips as she turned to look at Vasusena.

He was searching—searching for them.

Yet, it was not Vasusena's gaze that met hers first. It was Yuyutsu's. And when their eyes met, he smiled.

On the sixteenth day, when the arena was brimming with people, Princess Draupadi prepared herself for the moment to decide her fate. Bathed and adorned in the finest garments, she shone like a celestial flame, each ornament catching the morning light upon her body. In her hands, she carried a golden prize, exquisitely crafted, meant for the victor of the trial.

Before she stepped forward, she performed the sacred rituals. Ghee was poured into the sacrificial fire, its flames rising in divine acceptance. The Somaka priest, a Brahmana of great learning, chanted mantras, invoking peace upon the gathering, the gods, and the warriors who had come to test their might. The music ceased, silence reigning in its place.

Then, amidst the hushed anticipation, Dhrishtadyumna stepped forward. His voice, deep and resonant like the rumbling of thunder, carried across the vast arena.

"O assembled kings! Here stands the divine bow. Here lies the target. And here are the five arrows. The trial is this: With these arrows, you must strike the target—the eye of the fish—through the hole in the revolving mechanism while looking only at its reflection. He who accomplishes this feat today shall wed my sister, Krishnaa."

A murmur spread through the crowd as the assembled kings leaned forward, eyes gleaming with determination and challenge.

Dhrishtadyumna's rich, thunderous voice rose over the hushed arena, echoing through the vast gathering. The assembled kings and warriors, their hands gripping their weapons, their hearts beating with anticipation, turned their eyes toward him as he began to speak.

"O illustrious ones gathered here, hear me!

From the house of Kuru, the sons of Dritarashtra stand among you—Duryodhana, Durvisaha, Durmukha, Dushpradharshana, Vivimshati, Vikarna, Saha, Duhsasana, Sama, Yuyutsu, Vatavega, Bhimavegadhara, Ugrayudha, Balaki, Kanakayu, Virochana, Sukundula, Chitrasena, Suvarcha, Kanakadhvaja, Nandaka, Bahushali, Kunduja, and Vikata. These warriors, born of the mightiest lineage, their strength as fierce as lions, have come to prove their valour. Alongside them stands Brahmarshi Pandu Putra Vasusena, the son of Surya, radiant as the morning sun, whose very presence commands awe."

His gaze swept the arena before continuing, "And yet, they are not alone. From Gandara, warriors of great renown stand before us—Shakuni, Bala, Vrishaka, and Brihadbala, sons of the King of Gandara, mighty and unyielding. The son of the preceptor, Ashwatthama, a master of divine weapons, and the valiant Bhoja, adorned with every ornament of war, have come to stake their claim.

Behold the presence of kings—Brihanta, Manimana, Dandadhara, Sahadeva, Jayatsena, Meghasandhi of Magadha, Virata, and his two sons, Sankha and Uttara. These warriors, whose names are sung in the annals of battle, stand ready.

From the lands beyond, kings of great strength—Vardhakshemi, Susharma, Senabindu, and Abhibhu with his sons Sudamna and Suvarchasa. Sumitra, Sukumara, Vrika, Satyadhriti, Suryadhvaja, Rochamana, Nila, Chitrayudha, Amshumana, Chekitana, Shrenimana, Chandrasena, and the son of Samudrasena—Jalasamdha.

The father and son duo Vidanda and Danda stand among these mighty warriors.

From the eastern realms come the Poundraka Vasudeva, the fearless Bhagadatta, the great rulers of Kalinga, Tamralipta, and Pattana.

And among the assembled Kshatriyas, Shalya, the mighty King of Madra, stands with his sons alongside the warriors Rukmagandha and Rukmaratha.

From the Kuru lineage, the valiant Somadatta and his three sons—Bhuri, Bhurishrava, and Shala—are mighty Maharathas whose valour is unmatched.

From the distant lands of Kamboja, the warrior Sudakshina stands proud, as do the formidable Dridhadhanva, Brihadbala, Sushena, and the noble son of Ushinara—Shibi.

The Vrishini clan, whose name strikes both awe and reverence, is present in all its splendour. Samkarshana, Vasudeva, Samba—the son of Jambavati—Charudeshna, Sarana, Gada, Akrura, Satyaki, and the wise Uddhava, each unmatched in prowess are here to watch the Swayamvar rather than participate.

A murmur of disbelief rippled through the grand assembly. For a fleeting moment, all eyes turned toward the Vrishini clan—the mighty sons of Dwaraka—who had chosen not to partake in the Swayamvar.

Heavy with curiosity and speculation, a silence settled over the gathered warriors.

Seated behind her veil, Draupadi's gaze instinctively searched for the ones who had turned away from claiming her hand. She had expected every great warrior to step forward, yet those from Dwaraka had remained silent.

And then, her eyes met his.

Vasudeva Krishna.

Though her face remained hidden, she could not shake the feeling that he could see her beyond the veil, beyond mere appearances—as if he beheld her very soul. There was something in his gaze—a depth, an eternity, a knowing beyond mortal understanding. It stirred something within her, a quiet tempest, yet with it came an unexpected serenity, as though her anxious heart had suddenly found its shore.

A smile touched her lips—unbidden, unconscious.

And in that moment, he smiled back.

It was not the smile of a mere prince or warrior nor of one who sought to win. It was the smile of someone who already knew.

And she was left wondering, who is he indeed?

Meanwhile, across the assembly, Vasusena's brow furrowed. His gaze drifted toward the Vrishini clan, his heart stirred by an unspoken question. Why? Why were they not participating?

He turned to Yuyutsu, seeking an answer. The Kuru prince merely shrugged, equally uncertain. Even the Pandavas shared the same question.

Finally, Bhima broke the silence, turning to Niyati, Vasudeva Krishna's wise sister, and speaking straightforwardly, "I don't know about others, but yes, I can say this—if anyone can lift the Kindhura bow, it is Jyeshta Vasusena, my younger brothers Yuyutsu, Arjuna and Krishna of Dwaraka. I understand why Arjuna and Yuyutsu will not partake in this. But why has your brother Krishna refused? Why has Guru Balarama held back the entire Dwaraka?"

Niyati, ever composed, let a soft smile grace her lips. Her voice was steady, carrying the weight of wisdom from knowledge and understanding the currents of destiny, "Brata Vrikodara, the path of the wise is not always the path of the warrior. The strong do not raise their weapons merely because they can but because it is their dharma. The Vrishini are not here to claim victory, for there are battles beyond the reach of mere strength.

The tides do not rush to meet the shore before their destined time, and the sun does not race the moon across the sky. A warrior must know how to fight and when to fight.

A choice unmade is also a choice, Brata Bhima. Some victories are not won by arrows but by time. Some fates are not claimed by hands but by the will of the divine.

And sometimes, a bow is not lifted because it is already strung in the hands of destiny."

The Pandavas didn't understand much yet nodded silently. However, Krishna heard and smiled at his sister with a smirk. The answer, though veiled in wisdom, resonated deep within them.

And with that, the names of the remaining contenders were called, yet the weight of unspoken destinies lingered in the air.

Dhrishtadyumna continues, "From Hridika's lineage, the mighty Kritavarma stands, as do warriors of great distinction—Prithu, Viprithu, Viduratha, Kanka, Samika, Saramejaya, and Vatapati.

And from the Sindhu-Sauvira lands, Jayadratha, Brihadratha, and the war-hardened Bahlika stand among us, with the Maharatha Shrutayu, Uluka, King Kaitava, Chitrangada, and Subhangada.

Among them all, the patient King of Vatsa and the King of Kosala, renowned across the land, have also come, seeking your hand.

Ayonija! These warriors of unmatched fame, kings from every corner of Bharata, have gathered here today to claim your hand in marriage. Before you stand the mightiest of the earth, each ready to test their skill and fortune, each prepared to pierce the target and prove themselves worthy.

The one who strikes true, who fulfils the trial set forth, shall be the one you choose as your husband."

At these words, the veil covering Krishnaa's face was lifted.

And in that moment, the entire assembly fell silent.

A celestial glow seemed to surround her as if the very fire from which she had been born still flickered within her being. Her form, graceful as the Apsaras, was elegant beyond mortal reach. Her long, dark tresses cascaded like the Yamuna's waves, adorned with fragrant Mallika flowers, each petal trembling slightly in the gentle breeze.

Deep as the ocean, her eyes shone with an ethereal glow, holding the mysteries of a thousand moons. The curve of her brows was like the finely drawn bow of Kamadeva himself, her lips like freshly bloomed roses. Gold and pearls adorned her ears, a delicate chain resting against her slender neck.

She was draped in garments finer than the clouds of dusk, shimmering in hues of crimson and gold as if woven by the divine hands of Vishwakarma himself. The scent of sandalwood and lotus surrounded her, intoxicating those near, while her golden bangles chimed softly with her every movement as if whispering secrets to the gods.

To the assembled kings and warriors, she was not just a princess.

She was Devi Krishnaa—Draupadi, born of sacred fire, a vision of unparalleled beauty, grace, and strength.

And as they beheld her, their hearts swayed, their breaths caught in their throats.

The youthful kings, adorned with golden earrings and radiant in their battle regalia, stood proud like lions in their prime. Each one, convinced of his superiority in the art of war, cast a challenging glance at his rivals. With hearts brimming with confidence, they rose from their royal seats, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons as if ready to prove their valour at a moment's notice. Arrogance and beauty, lineage and strength, riches and youth—each king believed himself the most worthy, skilled, and deserving.

Like great elephants from the Himalayas in the season of rut, their pride surged through their veins. Their glances, filled with rivalry and desire, clashed like swords before a single arrow was shot. Their lips parted in bold proclamations, "Krishnaa will be mine!"—each voice ringing with a fervor that betrayed the storm raging within their hearts.

The grand arena of the Swayamvar became a battlefield of unspoken duels, where envy burned like wildfire, and even kin turned into adversaries for the sake of Drupada's daughter. Their souls, pierced by the unseen arrows of Kamadeva, the god of love, were bound in a fevered longing for the unparalleled maiden before them. The scent of challenge, the call of fate—none could resist.

But it was not only mortals who had gathered. The skies themselves bore testament to this moment. From the celestial realms, gods and sages descended upon their divine chariots.

The Rudras, the Adityas, the Vasus, the twin Ashvins, the Sadhyas, the Maruts, Yama—the god of death, and Kubera—the lord of wealth, all arrived to witness the event. The Daityas, Suparnas, mighty Uragas, the Devarshis, Guhyakas, and Charanas took their places among the divine spectators. The air was filled with celestial fragrances, and the heavens rained divine flowers in celebration.

Among them came the great Gandharvas and Apsaras, their ethereal melodies blending with the soft strains of the Vina, flute, and tabor. The gods' kettledrums resounded through the firmament, their thunderous echoes making the earth tremble with anticipation. The sky, crowded with the cars of the celestials, became so dense that passage through the heavens seemed nearly impossible.

The radiant Halayudha (Balarama), Janardhana, and the chiefs of the Vrishnis and Andhakas watched in silence. Among the Yadavas, Krishna's eyes gleamed with a knowing gaze, while Balarama's glances lingered upon a particular group within the crowd.

Krishna's eyes settled upon five figures, standing apart yet exuding an aura of quiet strength. Like mighty elephants seeking refuge in a lotus-filled lake, like a fire concealed beneath ashes, they were there—hidden, yet unmistakable.

Turning to Balarama, Krishna's voice was calm but confident. "That is Yudhishthira. That is Bhima. And there, that is Jishnu (Arjuna). See how those two stands, still as the deep ocean before a storm? They are the valorous twins, Nakula and Sahadeva."

Balarama followed his gaze, a flicker of recognition in his own eyes. Then, casting a pleased glance at Krishna, he smiled. Fate had begun to reveal its hand.

Then came the moment when kings and warriors, the mighty rulers of lands far and wide, stepped forth to prove their strength.

From among the gathered warriors, Duryodhana, Salwa, Shalya, Ashwatthama, Kratha, Sunitha, Vakra, the rulers of Kalinga and Banga, Pandya, Paundra, the king of Videha, the chief of the Yavanas, and countless others—sons and grandsons of emperors, sovereigns of vast territories—rose, adorned in crowns, garlands, and gleaming ornaments.

Their mighty arms flexed, their forms bursting with prowess and energy, their egos burning with the desire to claim Draupadi, the maiden of celestial beauty.

The Call of Dharma

As Suyodhana, with an air of arrogance, insisted on seating himself at the forefront, he deemed it the right moment to showcase his prowess and claim the hand of Rajkumari Krishnaa. Yet, ever the silent architect of destiny, fate had woven a different course for him. He strained against the bowstring with all his might, pulling it only to a meagre distance—the width of a mere finger. But the bow, a celestial sentinel of unyielding will, struck back with such force that he fell, face-first, onto the ground. Humiliation seared his pride like molten iron, and without another word, he rose and departed, his gait betraying his wounded ego.

One by one, the sons of Dritarashtra stepped forward, only to meet the same fate—each attempt failing, each warrior walking away with disgrace shadowing their steps.

The contest continued, yet none could even lift the Kindhura bow, let alone string it.

Then came the heroic king of Chedi, Sisupala, son of Damaghosa. In his ambition to wield the celestial bow, he pressed forth with all his might, but his strength betrayed him, and he collapsed onto his knees.

King Jarāsandha, renowned for his prowess and feared for his might, approached next. He stood before the bow, unmoving—fixed and resolute, like a mountain weathering the storm. But as he attempted to lift the divine weapon, the bow recoiled with such force that he, too, fell upon his knees. Shaken but composed, the monarch accepted his defeat with silent dignity and withdrew from the contest.

The valiant King of Madra, Salya, stepped forth, exuding strength and pride. But his fate mirrored that of his predecessors—cast down to his knees, overpowered by the bow's divine resistance.

As one king after another fell, murmurs arose among the gathering. The once-proud monarchs, who had entered the arena with inflated confidence, now found themselves the subject of hushed ridicule and derisive glances.

And then, Dhrishtadyumna's voice rang clear across the hall, calling forth a name that stilled the air itself—"Panduputr Vasusena."

For the first time, Krishnaa beheld him.

He walked forward, his presence calm and unwavering. Unlike the others who had stepped forth with arrogance, Vasusena first bowed before the celestial bow—a gesture unseen thus far yet one that did not go unnoticed. Vasudeva Krishna, Yuyutsu, Niyati, and Arjuna exchanged knowing smiles.

Until now, the Pandavas were entranced by Krishnaa's beauty—lost in the tides of love and longing—and were drawn back to the moment. Their elder brother stood before them, poised to claim the hand of the princess. Yet, in their hearts, something stirred—something that felt like a loss, like a silent fracture within. But before they could dwell on it, Vasusena spoke, and his words stunned the entire assembly.

"Pranipat, Maharaja Drupada."

His voice, steady as the ocean, resounded with the weight of unshaken resolve, "I sincerely apologize, but I cannot participate in this Swayamvar. I wished to speak of this before, yet I found no moment to do so, neither with you nor the Rajkumar."

A hush fell over the gathering. Then, laughter erupted.

"The great conqueror trembles before the bow!"

"A warrior who has conquered kings now fears lifting a mere weapon!"

The mocking voices rang through the air, their tones sharp with derision.

At once, his younger brothers—Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva—rose angrily, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. But before they could act, Niyati's hand rose—a silent command that held them in their place. Though seated, their clenched fists trembled, their pride wounded by the mockery hurled at their elder brother.

Yet, Vasusena stood unmoved, his gaze steady upon Drupada, "Maharaja," he continued, unshaken, "I am on my Digvijaya. My path is not yet complete, nor is my duty to my people fulfilled. I have yet to build a kingdom—a home for my family, my people. At this moment, I do not stand in a place where I can take a wife. It would be unjust to Rajkumari Krishnaa to draw her into the turbulence of my life, knowing the battles that still lie ahead. I cannot, in good conscience, bring another's daughter into a life of hardship and uncertainty."

His voice, though firm, carried the weight of truth, a truth that few in the hall could deny.

"For these reasons, my brother Yuyutsu and I shall not partake in this Swayamvar. I pray that Rajkumari Krishnaa finds a husband who will cherish her for the soul she carries within rather than the outer beauty."

With these words, Vasusena turned and returned to his seat.

Krishnaa, spellbound, watched his retreating form.

And then, in a gesture that spoke volumes, she bowed before him as he walked away—a silent acknowledgement of the righteousness that set him apart from the others.

The Pandavas felt the weight of his words pierces their hearts. Shame coloured their thoughts as they sat in silence. At last, Yudhishthira spoke, "I am ashamed of myself, Niyati," he admitted, his voice burdened with guilt. "While my Jyeshta fights to build a kingdom of righteousness, I sit here, consumed by the thought of claiming a princess' hand in marriage."

His brothers, feeling the same shame, nodded in solemn agreement.

But Niyati, ever perceptive, merely smiled, "That is his path, Brata Yudhishthira. But you must walk on your own. Now, do what you have earned."

Her words struck like a thunderbolt.

Arjuna, understanding her meaning, stood abruptly. "No. I will not. Did you not hear what Jyeshta said? How can I, his brother, partake in this Swayamvar after his refusal? I cannot. Let us leave, Niyati. We shall not participate in any marriage alliance until we have built our kingdom—just as Jyeshta Vasusena has vowed."

He turned to leave, but Niyati's voice, unwavering and sharp as steel, stopped him.

"That is Adharma, Brata Arjuna."

Her words hung in the air, heavier than the bow itself, "You know that Kindhura can be lifted only by Brata Krishna, Jyeshta Vasusena, Yuyutsu, and you. And now, they have all stepped back. If you do the same, then Rajkumari Krishnaa will remain unwed by the laws of Aryavarta. Do you wish for her to be ridiculed? Do you wish for Raja Drupada to be shamed before all?"

Her gaze swept over them, piercing through their feigned righteousness, "Until moments ago, you all coveted her," she continued. "Do not think I did not see. And now, you claim virtue? Is this what righteousness looks like?"

The five brothers felt guilt tighten around them, binding them like unseen chains.

Then, in a softer voice, she spoke again, "Brata Arjuna, you said if this contest were of bow and archery, you would participate. Then, uphold your Kshatriya Dharma. Win her hand—not for yourself, but for Dharma, for her honour. If not for anything else, then at least in the name of Karuna (compassion and mercy). Marry her, Brata."

A moment of silence. A decision is yet to be made. And the wheels of fate turning once more.