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

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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.