The road to Kampilya was a river of humanity flowing towards a single, spectacular sea. The Pandavas joined this river, five ghostly princes and their queen mother disguised as a family of wandering ascetics. They were a single, humble drop in a vast ocean of pilgrims, merchants, soldiers, and nobles, all drawn by the irresistible gravity of Draupadi's Swayamvara.
Their journey was an education. They walked with their heads bowed, their ears open. They heard the songs of bards praising the beauty of the fire-born princess. They listened to the arguments of scholars debating the legitimacy of a challenge designed to be impossible. They felt the nervous energy of the soldiers marching in the retinues of a hundred different kings, each man hoping his master would be the one to win the ultimate prize. The world, which had been a distant rumour in Ekachakra, was now a loud, vibrant, and dangerous reality pressing in on them from all sides.
Arjuna, in particular, felt a strange sense of homecoming. He was a warrior disguised as a priest, and this gathering of warriors was his natural element. He would watch the drills of different armies they passed on the road, his expert eye assessing their formations, their discipline, their weaponry. He felt the familiar thrum of his warrior's blood, a feeling he had suppressed for over a year. The great bow of Panchala called to him, a silent song that only his soul could hear.
Bhima, meanwhile, was focused on more practical matters. The journey was long, and the alms they collected on the road were scarce. His eyes, however, lit up as they drew closer to Kampilya. The sheer number of people meant more opportunities for charity, and the prospect of the feasts that would accompany a royal wedding made his stomach rumble with joyous anticipation.
When they finally arrived at the capital of Panchala, they were met with a city transformed. Kampilya was bursting at the seams, a kaleidoscope of colour, sound, and energy. Brightly coloured banners bearing the sigils of a hundred different kingdoms hung from every building. The streets were thronged with a dizzying array of people: haughty, armour-clad Kshatriyas; wealthy merchants hawking their wares; jugglers and acrobats performing for coins; and thousands of Brahmins who had come to witness the spectacle and receive the lavish charity of King Drupada.
The Pandavas, in their dusty, humble robes, were utterly invisible, and this anonymity was their greatest shield. They found lodging, as they had before, in the crowded but welcoming workshop of a local potter, who was honoured to give shelter to what he perceived as a pious family. From this humble base, they moved through the city, observing.
They saw the grand processions announcing the arrival of the great kings. They watched as the mighty Shishupala of Chedi, a man of immense power and arrogance, entered the city with a thousand war elephants. They saw the fearsome Jarasandha of Magadha, an emperor so powerful he had imprisoned dozens of lesser kings, his presence casting a pall of fear over the festive atmosphere. They saw Shalva, the king of Saubha, who was rumoured to possess a flying city, his retinue filled with strange and exotic warriors.
Then came the procession from Hastinapura. The Pandavas watched from the cover of a crowded alleyway as the familiar royal banners of the Kuru clan came into view. Duryodhana rode at the head of the contingent, his posture reeking of arrogance, his eyes sweeping over the crowds as if he already owned them. Beside him rode the man who was now his shadow, his shield, and his greatest weapon: Karna. The King of Anga was a figure of breathtaking radiance. His divine armor glowed with an inner light, and his celestial earrings blazed like miniature suns. His presence was so powerful that a hush fell over the crowd as he passed. The common folk whispered his name in awe, while the assembled Kshatriyas looked upon him with a mixture of respect and resentment. He was the son of a charioteer, yet he commanded the presence of an emperor.
Arjuna's gaze locked onto Karna. He felt no hatred, only the pure, cold assessment of a rival. He saw the effortless confidence, the raw power, the undeniable skill. This was the man he was destined to face. This was the other pole of his existence.
As the Kaurava procession passed, another, smaller but no less significant, entered the city. It was a simple, elegant chariot from the sea-girt kingdom of Dwaraka. In it were two men. One was a giant of a man with fair skin and eyes the colour of the sky, carrying a massive plough on his shoulder. This was Balarama, the master of the mace. Beside him stood a man whose charisma was a subtle but irresistible force. His skin was the colour of a dark monsoon cloud, he wore a simple yellow silk dhoti, and a peacock feather was tucked into his hair. A gentle, all-knowing smile played on his lips. This was Krishna of the Yadava clan, a cousin to the Pandavas, but more than that, he was an incarnation of the great god Vishnu, the preserver of the universe, walking the earth in human form.
As his chariot passed the alley where the Pandavas were hidden, Krishna's eyes, which seemed to miss nothing, flickered towards them for a fraction of a second. The smile on his lips widened almost imperceptibly. He had seen them. He knew. In that fleeting glance, a silent message of reassurance passed between the divine and the mortal. The Pandavas felt a wave of comfort wash over them. They were not alone in their deception. The master of the cosmic game was here, and he was watching over them.
The day of the Swayamvara arrived. The arena, specially built for the occasion, was packed to capacity. The kings and princes were seated in a great, tiered crescent, a dazzling assembly of power and ambition. Each was a lion in his own kingdom, but here they were all rivals, their egos and desires clashing in the charged air. In a separate enclosure, seated on mats of sacred grass, were the thousands of Brahmins, including the five Pandava brothers, looking for all the world like a group of anonymous ascetics.
A hush fell as King Drupada entered, followed by his son, the fire-born Dhrishtadyumna. Dhrishtadyumna, acting as the master of ceremonies, strode to the center of the arena. His voice, born of the sacrificial fire, boomed with authority as he welcomed the assembled kings.
Then he announced his sister.
Draupadi entered the arena, and it was as if the sun had been momentarily dimmed by a more compelling light. She was carried on a golden palanquin, and as she stepped out, a collective gasp went through the assembly. The Brahmin's description had not done her justice. Her beauty was a living flame, fierce and intelligent. She was not a coy, demure princess; her posture was proud, her gaze direct and challenging. In her hand, she held a golden garland of victory. She walked past the rows of assembled kings, her eyes scanning their faces, her expression unreadable. Every king, from the mighty Jarasandha to the arrogant Duryodhana, felt his heart beat faster. To win her would be to capture lightning itself.
Dhrishtadyumna then pointed to the center of the arena. There, on a raised platform, lay the celestial bow, the Kindura. It was a thing of terrifying beauty, fashioned from a dark, unearthly metal, so large and imposing it seemed to absorb the light around it. High above, suspended from the roof of the arena, was the golden fish, revolving in its intricate mechanism. Below it, on the ground, sat the shallow pan of shimmering oil.
"Behold, mighty kings!" Dhrishtadyumna proclaimed. "Here is the bow, and there is the mark! He among you who can lift this bow, string it, and, looking only at the reflection, pierce the eye of the fish with one of these five arrows, shall win the hand of my sister, the Princess of Panchala, the fire-born Draupadi!"
A wave of excited, nervous energy swept through the royal enclosure. This was it. The moment of truth.
One by one, the kings and princes came forward to try their luck. They approached the bow with confidence, their muscles bulging. They strained, they grunted, their faces turning red with effort. But the bow would not yield. It was as if it were rooted to the platform. The mighty Shishupala, the powerful Shalva, dozens of other famous heroes—they all tried and failed, retreating to their seats with shamefaced expressions, their pride wounded.
Finally, it was the turn of the greatest kings. Jarasandha, the emperor of Magadha, approached. He managed, with a great roar of effort, to lift the bow a few inches, but the effort left him trembling and he could not even begin to contemplate stringing it. He retired, his face dark with fury.
Then came Duryodhana. He swaggered to the platform, certain of his own strength. He strained, his muscles popping, but the bow remained stubbornly immobile. He gave up, cursing under his breath, and stalked back to his seat.
At last, only one great Kshatriya challenger remained. A hush fell as Karna, the King of Anga, rose from his seat. He moved with the fluid grace of a panther, his divine armor glowing softly. He approached the platform, and unlike the others, he did not strain. With a single, smooth, effortless motion, he lifted the great bow.
A gasp of awe went through the entire arena.
He held the bow easily, as if it were a common hunting bow. He then began to bend it, to affix the string. The great bow groaned, resisting his immense power. He bent it further, his muscles taut, his focus absolute. The string was almost in place. He was seconds away from being the only man able to attempt the shot.
It was at that moment that Draupadi's voice, clear and sharp as a shard of ice, rang out across the silent arena.
"I will not wed the son of a charioteer."
The words struck Karna like a physical blow. He froze, the bow half-strung in his hands. The entire assembly was stunned into silence. The public rejection, the dismissal of his divine skill because of his humble birth, was a humiliation far deeper than any he had ever suffered. His face, which had been a mask of serene concentration, became a canvas of anguish and incandescent rage. For a long, terrible moment, he stared at Draupadi. Then, with a bitter, mirthless laugh, he dropped the great bow. It crashed onto the platform with a sound like a thunderclap. Without another word, without a backward glance, he turned and strode back to his seat, his radiant aura dimmed by the shadow of a profound and terrible wound.
The challenge was over. Every king, every prince, every great hero had failed. A murmur of disappointment went through the crowd. Drupada's face was a mask of despair. His impossible challenge had proven to be truly impossible.
It was then, in the ensuing silence, that from the anonymous enclosure of the Brahmins, a single figure rose and began to walk towards the platform. He was tall and graceful, his face obscured by matted hair, his powerful shoulders hidden beneath a simple deerskin. It was Arjuna.