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

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  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.