The Swayamvara

The grand hall of Kampilya's palace shimmered with anticipation, its golden pillars draped in silk and jasmine, as princes and kings from across Aryavrat gathered for the swayamvara of Panchal Kumari Draupadi.

The air buzzed with the clink of armor and murmurs of ambition. Yuvraj Dhrishtadyumna, Drupad's fireborn son, stepped forward, his voice resonant yet courteous. "Pranipat, noble kings, princes, and esteemed guests. I am deeply grateful that you've honored our invitation with your presence. The swayamvara will commence after one prahar. Until then, please accept Panchal's hospitality—our maids will attend to your needs, and guides will show you the palace if you wish to explore."

He gestured, and maids in flowing saris moved through the crowd, offering refreshments, while guards stood ready to lead tours. The assembly nodded, some exchanging eager glances, others sizing up rivals.

Bahubali, seated between Karna and Duryodhana, exchanged a quiet smile with his friends, their bond a calm anchor in the tense hall. Ashwatthama, nearby, leaned in, muttering, "Drupad's hospitality hides his schemes, but this promises a spectacle."

After a prahar, King Drupad entered with Dhrishtadyumna, both resplendent in royal silks, their presence commanding. Drupad raised his hands, his voice warm but calculated. "Pranipat, noble guests. Today, my daughter Draupadi, born of sacred fire, will choose her husband through an archery contest. A bow, crafted by divine hands, awaits—lift it, string it, and shoot an arrow through a revolving fish's eye, seeing only its reflection in water below. The victor wins her hand and Panchal's alliance."

As he spoke, Draupadi entered, her wheatish skin glowing, her silk sari shimmering like a celestial stream. Her ethereal beauty, rivaling apsaras, drew gasps. Most suitors stared with admiration, lust, or ambition, but Bahubali, Karna, Duryodhana, and Ashwatthama remained composed, their focus elsewhere.

From the audience, the Pandavas, disguised as Brahmins, watched, their blood boiling at Duryodhana's presence as yuvraj, convinced he orchestrated the Varanavat fire. Seeing Bahubali and Karna beside him, they assumed their complicity, their anger flaring, only to soften at Draupadi's radiance.

Arjuna, especially, felt a pang—had he not been in exile, he could have claimed her—but as a Brahmin, he was bound to watch.

The contest began, Dhrishtadyumna announcing each participant with flourish. Kings and princes stepped forward, but none could lift the divine bow, its weight defying their strength.

Drupad, watching from a high platform beside Draupadi and Krishna, grew anxious, his voice low. "Dwarkadhish, no one can even lift the bow! I designed this for Arjuna, believing him alive, but now the swayamvara falters. What have you wrought with this task?"

Krishna's smile was serene, his eyes twinkling. "Maharaj, the bow tests not just strength but purity of heart. Doubt or pride renders it immovable. Only a warrior of true skill and dharma can succeed. Patience—someone here is worthy."

Drupad, agitated, pressed, "But who, Dwarkadhish? If not Arjuna, who can fulfill this?"

Draupadi, curious, leaned forward. "Sakha, please, reveal who could conquer this task. My heart seeks to know."

Krishna chuckled, his voice gentle. "My dear sakhi, I cannot deny you. Four in this generation could triumph: Kaunteya Arjuna, myself, Angaraj Karna, and Magadha Naresh Bahubali. The bow will yield to one pure of purpose."

Drupad's face fell. "Sutaputras? I invited Karna and Bahubali for their prowess, but my fireborn daughter wed to lowborns? I sought Arjuna to defy Drona, or you, Dwarkadhish, to bind Dwarka. My spies failed to find the Pandavas—Arjuna's loss is my despair."

Krishna's smile widened. "Trust, Maharaj. The swayamvara will succeed—my word."

The Pandavas, hidden among the crowd, seethed. Duryodhana's presence fueled their belief in his treachery, and Bahubali and Karna's alliance with him stung like betrayal.

Yet Draupadi's beauty captivated them, a nectar they could not taste. Arjuna, knowing he could win, burned with frustration—exile barred him from competing. He hoped Karna and Bahubali would fail, a petty solace for his humiliation at the kalapradarshan, though part of him wished the contest would open to all, letting him, even as a Brahmin, claim victory.

The contest continued, suitors failing one by one. Dhrishtadyumna called Duryodhana, who stood, his voice clear. "I abstain, Maharaj Drupad. Archery isn't my strength, and my heart belongs to my wife, Bhanumati. I'm here to represent Hastinapur, and thank you for your invitation."

Drupad nodded, unimpressed. Dhrishtadyumna called Ashwatthama, who rose, saying, "I withdraw, Maharaj. I follow brahmacharya and cannot marry, even if I succeed."

Drupad snapped, his voice sharp, "It seems Drona failed to teach you courage, Ashwatthama, or you'd not shy from my challenge."

Ashwatthama's eyes flashed, but he replied coolly, "Maharaj, my training is not your concern. I abstain for my vow, not for lack of skill. Mock my guru again, and you'll see what I've learned."

Drupad sneered, "Your withdrawal proves teachers today are waning. Drona's legacy is weak."

His words ignited fury in Bahubali and Karna; their guru was more than a teacher for them.

Bahubali, who had planned to abstain, stirred with resolve. Another princess held his heart, but Drupad's insult demanded a response.

When Dhrishtadyumna called, "Magadha Naresh Bahubali," he stood, his presence commanding. Closing his eyes, he prayed for Mahadev in his mind, seeking his blessings, then gripped the divine bow. With effortless strength, he lifted it, drawing gasps from the hall.

Draupadi clenched her fists, her face tense; Drupad's relief was palpable, fearing the contest might seem a farce. Duryodhana and Karna exchanged proud smiles, though the Pandavas seethed, Arjuna's envy flaring at Bahubali's prowess.

Bahubali strung the bow with ease, its twang echoing, but paused, turning to Draupadi. Before he could speak, her voice rang out, sharp and clear. "Stop! I will not marry a sutaputra."

The hall fell silent, shock rippling through the crowd. Bahubali's face turned cold, his eyes narrowing, the weight of her words a challenge to his honor and dharma.