They named her Krishnaa because of her
skin which was almost black, like mine. She
was the daughter of the King of Panchal.
There were stories around her birth too. They
said she was born of fire, a colossal beauty,
black tresses that cascade down her back,
eyes that as easily flashed in anger as they
twinkled in joy.
Krishnaa was my friend, unlike all the other
women in my life. I could talk with her about
anything and everything. Unencumbered by
the strings of jealousy, possessiveness, hurt,
and all the drama that love brings with it,
Krishnaa allowed me to be myself.
She did not see me as the charming,
flirtatious provocateur, an image I never
understood I landed up with. She did not
desire me in the physical sense. I never
looked at her as a man looks at a woman. I
saw her as Krishnaa, my friend, and she
reciprocated with her gift, the gift of her
friendship.
I met Krishnaa for the first time at her
Swayamvar. The swayamvar was a
ceremony where a princess chose the person
she wished to marry. It was a strictly
invitation-only affair where eligible grooms
from all over the world would be asked to
come and participate in tests of their
strength, skills, and valour. The victor would
win the right to ask for the hand of the bride
to be. The bride-to-be could refuse.
I met Krishnaa for the first time at her
swayamvar. I was not vying for her hand in
marriage. I had come to Panchal knowing
that Arjun would be there. Arjun was the
third son of the late King Pandu of
Hastinapur and my aunt Kunti. Arjun, my
cousin, my friend, would try to win Panchali.
I needed Krishnaa to say yes to him.
This tale has been told millions of times by
hundreds and thousands of storytellers, but I
lived it. I pulled the strings that caused the
events to unfold in the sequence they needed
to so that the Mahabharata may be written.
My presence at the swayamvar ensured
Panchali said yes to Arjun after she said no
to Karn. Karn, who was far more handsome
than Arjun, to look upon Karn was to stare at
the sun. The fire in Panchali''s soul would
undoubtedly find its match in Karn. But the
marriage of Panchali and Karn would never
lead to the Mahabharata. In the absence of
the war to end all wars, Duryodhana would
be King of the most important Kingdom of
the lands east of Indus.
If they are to prosper, flourish, and achieve
oneness, a people must be guided by a wise,
balanced, good King. Duryodhana
represented none of the qualities expected of
royalty. He must not be the inheritor of his
father''s kingdom. This was something I knew
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.with absolute certainty.
And so, I asked Krishnaa to say no to Karn.
Krishnaa listened to me. She understood the
thinly veiled arguments I offered, believing
in her ambition and pride to show her that
my suggestions held value.
Krishnaa married Arjun, my favourite
cousin, and in a strange twist of fate, all four
of his brothers. I married many women after
Rukmini. It was expected of me, and I
merely carried out my duties to the best of
my ability. Is it strange that I, of the many
wives, and Panchali of the five husbands,
Krishna and Krishnaa became the closest of
friends?
As the years passed, my relationship with my
friend''s wife grew deeper. It would be wrong
of me to claim a brotherly love or say that
she felt a sisterly affection. We were man
and woman but unfettered in our
companionship. I heard the words she did not
speak; she understood all that I refused to
reveal.
Krishnaa''s husband Yudhishtir, the eldest of
the Pandavas, and Arjun''s brother loved a
good game of chaupar. A board game,
played with wooden pawns and seven shells,
a version of what some would later call ludo.
A game of chance, it is said to have been
invented by the God Shiva and first played
between Shiva and his wife, Parwati.
Yudhishtir could never say no to chaupar or
to betting on the outcomes. His weakness for
a common board game led to the most
disgraceful occurrence in the history of the
lands to the east of Indus. Yudhishtir bet
himself, his brothers, and his wife.
How a man as intelligent, as wise, as morally
righteous as Yudhishtir could wager his wife
as if she were cattle or an object in his
possession is confounding. But he did. And
he lost. His cousins, the Kaurava men, led by
Duryodhana, refused to listen to reason.
They demanded the wager''s fulfilment, so in
a fit of toxic masculine power, Duryodhana''s
brother dragged my friend from her
chambers into the great hall where the game
had just ended in utter humiliation for
Yudhishtir and his brothers. In front of the
courtiers and the giants of Hastinapur, they
ragged Panchali, gesturing obscenely at her.
The Kaurava brother did the unthinkable.
They tried to disrobe her, pulling at her
loosely wrapped yellow sari. In front of the
so-called august assembly of the Lords of
Hastinapur, they attempted to strip her of her
clothes and her pride. Her husbands, all five
of them, stood their heads bowed, valuing
their promise more than her.
Krishnaa, overpowered by the physical might
of the monsters, closed her eyes and focussed
every atom of her being into me, the one
person she knew would never abandon her. I
was not present in person at the court of
Hastinapur, but those vile dregs of humanity
who pulled at Krishnaa''s sari were unable to
uncover her. No one understood how, or why
but Krishnaa''s sari would not unwrap itself
off her frame.
But a land that bears witness to such a
heinous crime must pay the price for its
silence in the face of an unforgivable sin.
Hastinapur and its hall of greats were
doomed the day they watched in impotence
the horror of their daughter-in-law''s
humiliation.