The Swayamvar of Panchal had begun.
The air itself trembled with anticipation. From every corner of Aryavarta, kings, warriors, sages, and royals had gathered in Kampilya, the capital of Panchal, to witness the choosing of the most coveted maiden in all the lands—Draupadi, daughter of fire, jewel of Drupada.
Bedecked in silk the color of twilight and gold that shimmered like flame, Draupadi stepped into the grand sabha. Her long dark hair flowed like a river of night, adorned with delicate pearls and fragrant jasmine. Her eyes were kohl-lined, shaped like lotus petals, yet deeper than any mystery the sages could fathom. Her walk was not just graceful—it was celestial, every step echoing her fire-born origin.
The conch shells blew. The drums rolled. The challenge stood.
A grand bow carved from celestial wood, and a revolving fish hung high above—only by watching its reflection in a pool of still water could one aim and pierce its eye. That was the task. That was the gate to Draupadi's heart.
Maharaj Drupada sat tall on his throne, his aged eyes scanning every guest with intensity. But his mind... his mind searched for one man—Parth, the one they said had perished in Varnavat's fire. Drupada did not believe it. His dreams, his instincts, his heart whispered otherwise. Arjun was alive. He had to be.
Krishna, lounging beside him like a content cat who had seen the ending of the play already, merely smiled.
"Sometimes," he murmured to himself, "fire hides beneath ash, but it never dies."
One by one, kings rose.
They tried. They failed.
Some could not lift the bow. Some could not string it. Some strung it but missed the eye. Each failure made the crowd gasp and murmur. The tension grew like a monsoon cloud.
Draupadi remained serene. But inside, her heart was thundering.
She had seen him. She had felt something—at the temple, when their eyes met. She had even recognized his portrait and instinctively painted a beard and moustache over it. It was him. The archer. The man her soul had whispered to her about.
Then Karna stood.
The son of a charioteer, crowned by Duryodhana himself. His presence drew a hush. Karna, golden-skinned, proud and formidable, walked towards the bow.
But before he could even lay his hand on it, Draupadi's voice rang clear like a temple bell:
"I will not marry a Sutputra."
A ripple spread. Gasps. Shock.
Karna's eyes flickered with something sharp—hurt? Anger? Shame?
Duryodhana growled, ready to speak, but Draupadi cut across again.
"And I shall not marry Duryodhana either, not by proxy or force. My choice is my own."
Arjun, hidden among the monks, felt a stab in his heart. Not anger, not judgment—just the piercing truth of the world they lived in.
"She had to do it," he thought, his fingers tightening into fists. "Because women in this age must shout to be heard, even in their own swayamvar."
Bheem shifted beside him. Even he, the mighty Vrikodara, felt the pull of Draupadi's presence—but said nothing. Only watched, silently.
Arjun took a deep breath.
It was time.
He stood up.
The sabha turned. A monk in robes stepped forward. A collective murmur rose—who dared now, after so many had failed?
Arjun's eyes met Draupadi's. A jolt.
In that moment, nothing else existed. Only her. Only him. It was not recognition—it was remembrance.
He walked calmly. Bowed before the altar. And then, with fluid ease, lifted the bow.
Gasps.
He strung it.
The silence was so deep, one could hear hearts pounding.
He looked down at the reflection, the fish swirling slowly. Focused. Stilled. Drew the arrow. Released.
The arrow sliced through air. Time seemed to pause.
The fish's eye—pierced.
The crowd erupted.
Krishna clapped. Maharaj Drupada rose from his seat, stunned and joyous. Somewhere, even Karna closed his eyes.
But Draupadi did not move.
She walked up to him.
They were close now. Too close for the world to intrude.
Their eyes locked once again.
This time, Draupadi smiled softly, eyes brimming with something like peace, like victory, like home.
"Got you," she whispered in her heart.
And Arjun smiled back.
Fate had just exhaled.