Draupadi

CHAPTER VII

The handmaiden meticulously fastened my breast cloth, ensuring a flawless fit, before delicately draping the pleated saree across it. Wrapped in opulent red and gold silks, adorned with extravagant jewelry, I was the very embodiment of regality. Kohl lined my eyes, deepening their intensity, while a perfectly symmetrical bindi of deep crimson graced my forehead. My knee-length tresses, a river of darkness, were expertly braided in an intricate, timeless style, fragrant jasmine blossoms woven into the masterpiece. A dhrishti bindi was placed at the nape of my neck, a silent guardian against ill fortune.

Heavy anklets adorned my feet, their melodious chimes marking each measured step, while a golden waistband cinched around my hips, accentuating their curves.

I gazed at my reflection one last time, taking in the woman who would step forward to meet her fate. Then, with quiet resolve, I placed my hand in Dhri's. He held it firmly, a silent promise of protection, and together, we stepped forward.

Krishna's astonished gasp caught my attention. I cast him a stern glare, though my eyes betrayed my true question—would Arjun be there?

His reassuring smile confirmed my hopes, yet beneath it, I sensed something else. A quiet, knowing look that spoke of destiny. That it would unfold as it must.

With Dhri leading the way, I walked into my future.

I entered the grand hall with regal poise, my head held high. The gathered kings and princes turned their eyes upon me, some with admiration, others with envy, still others with calculation. Dhri strode ahead, his face unreadable, but his presence alone was enough to command silence.

The hall was filled with men—some noble, some unworthy. Many of them were as old as my father. The Kaurava princes sat together, exuding arrogance, their voices carrying as they spoke to their ever-loyal companion, Karna.

I bowed to my father before taking my seat. Across the hall, Krishna smiled at me, his presence a silent comfort.

Dhri then stepped forward to declare the rules of the svayamvar.

The task was simple yet formidable: the archer must strike the eye of the rotating fish above, using the reflection in the pool below as their only guide.

One by one, kings and princes stepped forward, only to fail. My father and Dhri remained composed, for their confidence lay in one man alone—Arjun.

But Krishna, ever the voice of wisdom, murmured beside me, "Karna may succeed too."

I stiffened. No. This was meant to be Arjun's victory. Not Karna's.

When Karna stood, declaring that he would compete on behalf of Duryodhana, I felt the tension in the air tighten. Then, in an unexpected turn, he spoke again—this time, declaring his intent to win me for himself.

Panic gripped me.

Could he truly succeed?

I prayed fervently to the gods. Let it not be him. Let it not be him.

I barely realized I had reached for a strand of my hair, twisting it anxiously.

Then—

The arrow slipped from Karna's grasp.

Relief crashed over me. Dhri let out an audible breath beside me.

And then, my father, in his wisdom, made an announcement that sent murmurs rippling through the hall—brahmins, too, could now participate.

A hush fell as a lone figure emerged from the crowd.

He carried himself with effortless strength, his stride sure, his presence commanding. A broad chest, a thick beard, long unruly locks—he did not wear the adornments of a prince, yet he held himself like one.

And as he picked up the bow, I knew.

The mischievous glint in Krishna's eyes confirmed it.

It was Arjun.

He lifted the bow with ease, strung it in a single fluid motion, and released the arrow.

The hall gasped.

A perfect strike.

The eye of the fish.

The moment had arrived.

Stepping forward, my hands steady despite my racing heart, I lifted the heavy garland.

As I placed it around his neck, our eyes met.

And there it was—the unmistakable copper hue, the boyish, heart-stopping grin.

I had known it would be him.

I had prayed for it to be him.

And now, he stood before me, victorious.

But joy was short-lived.

The hall erupted in rage.

Kings, their pride wounded, hurled accusations at my father. Had this svayamvar been a ruse? A farce to humiliate them?

I saw Dhri's hand tighten around his sword. Shikhandhi stood ready, prepared to defend our honor.

The anger swelled into a storm, but Arjun—steady, composed—brushed off their protests as easily as he had struck the mark. He moved beside me, his presence a silent shield.

Then Krishna's voice, calm yet commanding, cut through the chaos.

"Offer them your blessings," he said. "Or at least your silence."

The room simmered, but the fire did not die.

Arjun turned to my father.

"Permit me to introduce my bride to my mother and my brothers," he said, his voice filled with both respect and quiet triumph. "I will return for our sacred union."

And so, my journey began.

The first of many.

The first that would change the course of my life forever.

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