A wave of confusion, followed by derisive laughter, rippled through the royal enclosure. A Brahmin? A beggar who lived on alms, daring to attempt a feat that had humbled the mightiest kings on earth? The idea was absurd, an insult to the entire Kshatriya order.
"Look at the arrogance of these priests!" sneered Shishupala of Chedi. "Their bellies are so full of the king's charity that they now fancy themselves warriors! Someone remove that fool before he hurts himself."
Duryodhana laughed a loud, scornful laugh. "Perhaps he thinks he can win the princess with a Vedic chant! The audacity is amusing, I'll grant him that."
Even the Brahmins in their own enclosure were aghast. They began to murmur amongst themselves, scandalized. "Who is he? He brings shame upon us all! This is a task for kings, not for ascetics! He will make a mockery of our sacred order!"
But the lone figure walking towards the platform paid them no heed. He moved with a strange, fluid grace that belied his humble deerskin robes. His face was obscured by the matted locks of a renunciate, but his posture was that of a warrior. Yudhishthira watched him, his heart a drumbeat of terror and hope. Bhima grinned, cracking his massive knuckles in anticipation. In the royal box, Krishna leaned forward slightly, the knowing, gentle smile never leaving his lips. He turned to his brother Balarama and whispered, "Watch closely, brother. The play is about to begin."
Arjuna reached the platform. He did not look at the failed kings or the mocking crowd. He did not even look at the beautiful princess for whom this contest was being held. His entire being was focused on the great bow, the Kindura, that lay on the dais like a sleeping beast.
Dhrishtadyumna, his face a mask of confusion and irritation, stepped forward to block his path. "Stop, Brahmin," he commanded. "This is no place for you. This challenge is for princes of royal blood, not for wandering priests. Return to your seat before you bring dishonour upon yourself and your order."
Arjuna simply bowed his head in a gesture of humility. "All men are born of Brahma," he said, his voice calm and clear, yet carrying a quiet authority that cut through the noise of the arena. "And skill is a gift from the gods, not a privilege of birth. If a Kshatriya can study the Vedas, why cannot a Brahmin test his skill with a bow? Do not deny me the chance, O Prince. Let my actions, not my robes, be the judge of my worth."
King Drupada, who had been slumped on his throne in utter despair, now sat up. He looked at the strange Brahmin. There was something in his voice, a serene confidence that was entirely different from the blustering arrogance of the kings who had failed. He remembered the whispers he had clung to, the foolish hope that the one archer capable of this feat might somehow appear. A desperate, wild spark of hope ignited in his heart.
"Let him try!" Drupada commanded, his voice ringing out over the objections of his son. "He has spoken well. We have seen the pride of kings fail. Let us now witness the faith of a Brahmin! Let him try!"
Dhrishtadyumna, though still skeptical, bowed to his father's will and stepped aside.
Arjuna stepped onto the platform. He stood before the great bow and for a moment, he closed his eyes. He was no longer a beggar in a crowded arena. He was back in the forest with his guru. He silently offered a prayer, a single, focused thought of reverence to the master who had given him this knowledge. For you, Gurudeva.
Then, he opened his eyes. He bent down and grasped the bow. The crowd, which had been jeering, fell silent. With a single, fluid motion that spoke of an intimate, lifelong familiarity, he lifted the celestial bow. There was no strain, no grunt of effort. He held it as if it were a part of his own arm.
A collective gasp swept through the arena. The kings who had failed to even move the weapon now sat bolt upright, their mockery turning to stunned disbelief. Karna leaned forward, his eyes narrowed, his knuckles white where he gripped the arm of his throne.
Arjuna placed one end of the bow on the ground, bracing it with his foot. He took the bowstring. Then, with a movement so swift it was almost invisible, he bent the massive stave and affixed the string. The Kindura, which had resisted the might of emperors, was strung with a resounding TWANG that echoed through the silent arena like a note from a divine harp.
He had done what no other man could do.
He then picked up one of the five golden arrows. He did not look up at the revolving fish. He walked to the pan of oil on the ground and knelt, his focus absolute. The world ceased to exist. There was no crowd, no kings, no princess. There was only the reflection, a distorted, shimmering image of the target, and the point of his arrow. He saw the revolving mechanism, the glint of the golden fish, and the tiny, dark spot that was its eye.
His breathing slowed until it was almost imperceptible. He drew the string back to his ear. The posture was flawless, a perfect union of man and weapon. For a single, eternal second, he held the aim.
He released.
The arrow did not fly; it vanished. It was a streak of golden light, a thought made manifest. There was a sharp, high-pitched CRACK from high above.
Every eye in the arena shot upwards. The golden fish, its tiny eye pierced perfectly through the center, broke from its mechanism and fell, tumbling through the air. It landed on the ground before Arjuna's feet with a soft thud.
For a moment, there was absolute, stunned silence. The silence of a world that had just witnessed the impossible.
Then, the Brahmin enclosure erupted. The priests, who moments before had been scornful, now leaped to their feet, their voices raised in a deafening roar of triumph. They threw their deerskins and water pots into the air, celebrating this victory as their own. A Brahmin had succeeded where all the Kshatriyas had failed! Their order had been vindicated in the most spectacular fashion imaginable.
King Drupada let out a great cry of pure, unadulterated joy. Tears streamed down his face. His impossible prayer had been answered. He had found the one man in the world worthy of his divine daughter.
Draupadi herself stood frozen, her heart pounding. She had rejected the radiant Karna, the most powerful warrior she had ever seen, based on his birth. Now, her hand had been won by a man whose birth was even humbler. But she had also witnessed a feat of divine skill that transcended all worldly status. Her gaze was fixed on the Brahmin, who now stood up, his face still hidden by his matted hair. With a grace and dignity that belied her shock, she took the golden garland of victory from her attendant, walked towards Arjuna, and placed it around his neck.
The act was sealed. The Swayamvara was over.
But the kings did not see it that way. The initial shock gave way to a tidal wave of furious, wounded pride.
"This is an outrage!" roared Shishupala, leaping to his feet. "We came here in good faith to contest for the princess's hand, and Drupada allows a beggar to steal her away! This is a mortal insult to every king assembled here!"
"He has made a mockery of us all!" shouted Jarasandha, his voice a low growl of thunder. "He has shamed the entire Kshatriya race! We will not stand for it! If we cannot have the princess, then no one will! Let us take her by force and teach this arrogant king a lesson he will never forget!"
A roar of agreement went up from the assembled royals. Their collective humiliation had coalesced into a single, violent purpose. They drew their swords, their armor rattling as they rose from their seats. The festive arena transformed into a tinderbox, ready to explode into war. They began to advance on Drupada and Draupadi, a glittering, angry wave of royal fury.
Arjuna, seeing the threat, did not flinch. He still held the great celestial bow. He turned and stood before Draupadi, a lone, deerskin-clad figure facing down an army of kings.
"Fear not," he said to the trembling Drupada. "I have won the prize. I shall defend it."
As the kings charged, another figure detached himself from the Brahmin enclosure. It was Bhima. He had watched the proceedings with a growing, joyous pride, but now his warrior's blood was singing. With a roar that shook the foundations of the arena, he did not look for a weapon. He simply walked to one of the massive wooden pillars supporting the royal canopy, wrapped his mighty arms around it, and with a great heave, tore it from its foundations. He hefted the massive pillar onto his shoulder as if it were a simple club.
The kings stopped dead in their tracks. They stared in disbelief. One Brahmin had performed a miracle with a bow. Now, another was wielding a pillar as a weapon. Who were these men?
Yudhishthira, Nakula, and Sahadeva also rose, their hands gripping the hilts of the simple swords they carried concealed beneath their robes. The five brothers stood together, a small, determined island against a sea of enraged royalty.
From his seat, Karna watched the scene unfold, his face a complex mask of emotions. He saw the Brahmin who had succeeded where he had failed, and he saw the other who possessed a strength that rivaled his own. A flicker of recognition, a memory of stories of five powerful brothers, began to dawn in his mind.
Krishna turned to Balarama, who was gripping his plough, ready to join the fray. "Calm yourself, brother," Krishna said, his smile serene. "There is no need for us to interfere. The men who have won the princess are more than capable of protecting her. Just watch. The world is about to be reintroduced to the sons of Pandu."
The standoff was absolute. On one side, the assembled might of the Kshatriya world, their pride shattered, their swords drawn. On the other, five mysterious Brahmins who possessed the power of gods, standing ready to defend their prize and, in doing so, reveal their true identities to a world that believed them to be dead.