Colored cloths draped over stalls in a vibrant plaza outside the palace gates, their reds and yellows fluttering in a warm midafternoon breeze, casting bright patches across the packed dirt. Drums pounded a quick rhythm from a wooden platform, their thumps rolling over the crowd, and dust swirled in the air, kicked up by restless feet. Stalls lined the edges, piled with clay pots and woven baskets, their vendors shouting over each other, their voices mingling with the chatter of onlookers. Crowds pressed close, their tunics a patchwork of faded hues, tossing handfuls of rice at winners, the grains scattering like confetti. The sun beat down, its glare glinting off a rope strung tight between two poles, swaying faintly in the wind.
Arjuna balanced on the rope, his small frame steady as he gripped his bow, his tunic taut against his chest. His dark hair swayed, tied back, and his sandals gripped the coarse weave as he nocked an arrow, his dark eyes narrowing. He loosed it, the string twanging, and the arrow shattered a clay pot dangling from a stall, shards raining down. The crowd roared, their voices wild and loud, and he grinned, quick and bright, firing again, another pot bursting as he swayed, his balance unshaken.
Bhima stood near a cleared patch, his broad frame towering as he juggled three stones, their rough edges glinting as he tossed them high. His vest flapped open, patched and worn, and his dark curls bounced with each catch, his grin wide and easy. Nakula and Sahadeva raced mules along the plaza's edge, their small tunics flapping, their fair and dark heads bent low as they shouted, their animals kicking up dust. Duryodhana wrestled a guard near the drums, his dark tunic straining as he grappled, his small boots slipping in the dirt, his face flushed red.
Arjuna's voice called, crisp and sharp as he nocked another arrow, his tunic rippling. "Pots down! Easy as that!" He fired, a third pot shattering, and the crowd cheered louder, rice pelting his legs as he swayed, his dark eyes glinting with pride.
Bhima's laugh boomed, loud and wild as he caught a stone, his broad hands quick. "Stones up! Watch me, eh!" He tossed them higher, his dark curls shaking, and he spun one in the air, his grin flashing as more rice scattered at his feet, the crowd's chants swelling.
Nakula's voice rose, soft and quick as he urged his mule, his fair curls bouncing. "Faster, come on! We've got this!" He leaned forward, his small tunic creasing, and his mule surged, dust billowing as he pulled ahead, his shout bright.
Sahadeva's voice followed, quiet and sharp as he kicked his mule, his dark hair swaying. "Got it, Nakula! Keep up!" He grinned, his small frame steady, and his mule matched pace, their hooves thudding, the crowd tossing rice as they crossed the line together.
Duryodhana's growl rumbled, low and fierce as he twisted under the guard, his dark tunic tight. "Pin me? You'll pay! All of you!" He shoved back, his small hands clawing, but the guard's arm locked, slamming him down, his face hitting the dirt, his breath huffing out.
The crowd's chant erupted, wild and loud as they clapped, their voices rolling over the plaza. "Pandavas! Best! Pandavas!" Rice piled at Arjuna's feet as he leapt from the rope, landing light, and Bhima caught his stones, bowing with a laugh. Nakula and Sahadeva slid off their mules, their grins matching as hands slapped their backs, the festival a bright stage for their shine.
Duryodhana's hand twitched toward his belt, his voice bitter and low as he pushed up, his dark tunic stained. "Best? Cheats, that's what!" He shoved the guard off, his small frame trembling, and his fingers brushed the blade's hilt, the steel hidden but cold against his skin. He stopped, his flush deepening, and his dark curls clung to his brow, his hate swelling.
Arjuna's voice came crisp and teasing as he slung his bow, his small hands dusting off. "Cheats? Skill's no cheat, Duryodhana! Try the rope next time!" He grinned, his dark eyes flicking to the crowd, and he waved, rice sticking to his tunic as their cheers followed him.
Bhima's laugh rolled out, gruff and bold as he dropped a stone, his broad frame shifting. "Rope? He'd fall flat! Good show, eh, Arjuna?" He clapped Arjuna's shoulder, his dark curls bouncing, and his grin widened, his strength a roar in the plaza's din.
Nakula's voice softened, warm and quick as he brushed his mule, his fair curls catching the light. "Good show, yes! We smoked 'em, Sahadeva!" He nudged his twin, his small tunic dusty, and his laugh bubbled, his joy lifting with the crowd's awe.
Sahadeva's voice echoed, quiet and firm as he patted his mule, his dark hair settling. "Smoked 'em, true. Together, like always!" He smiled, his small frame steady, and his dark eyes glinted, their teamwork a gentle thread in the festival's glow.
Duryodhana's voice snarled, fierce and low as he stormed through the stalls, his small boots kicking dust. "Together? I'll break 'em apart! You'll see!" He shoved past a vendor, his dark tunic tearing at the seam, and his hand hovered near the blade, his defeat a bitter sting gnawing deeper.
The crowd's chant swelled, their voices wild and high as they tossed more rice, their hands waving. "Pandavas! Best!" A boy in a patched tunic climbed a stall, shouting, and a woman threw flowers, their petals scattering in the breeze, the plaza alive with their rise.
Arjuna's voice rang, sharp and bright as he picked up a flower, his small hands twirling it. "Best? They say it, not us! Hard luck, Duryodhana!" He tucked the flower into his tunic, his grin steady, and his dark eyes flicked to Bhima, his confidence a spark in the dust.
Bhima's voice boomed, loud and gruff as he juggled a stone again, his broad hands quick. "Hard luck? He's soft! Couldn't pin a shadow!" He laughed, deep and wild, and his dark curls shook, his triumph a wall towering over Duryodhana's fall.
Duryodhana's voice hissed, low and bitter as he pushed through the crowd, his small frame tense. "Soft? I'll show 'em hard! This isn't over!" He patted the blade, his dark tunic smudged, and his dark eyes burned, his hate a gnawing grudge swelling in his chest.
Nakula's voice followed, soft and cheerful as he led his mule away, his fair curls bouncing. "Over? For today, maybe! We'll take the cheers!" He waved at the crowd, his small tunic rippling, and his laugh rang, his joy a light note in the plaza's roar.
Sahadeva's voice came steady, quiet and warm as he trailed Nakula, his dark hair swaying. "Cheers, yes. They earned it. Let's go, Nakula!" He nodded, his small frame calm, and his dark eyes softened, their bond a quiet strength amid the noise.
The drums pounded faster, their rhythm quickening, and the crowd surged, their chants a wave crashing over the stalls. Duryodhana's footsteps faded, his voice fierce and low as he muttered, his dark tunic vanishing into the throng. "Earned? Stolen! I'll take it back. Soon." He clenched his fists, his blade untouched but heavy, and his hate deepened, a venom pulsing through him.
Arjuna's voice lingered, crisp and sure as he turned to Bhima, his small hands resting on his bow. "Soon? Let him dream. We're here, and they know it!" He grinned, his dark eyes bright, and his tunic fluttered, his skill a beacon in the festival's glow.
Bhima's laugh echoed, bold and loud as he tossed a stone high, his broad frame towering. "Know it? They'll feel it next time! Good day, eh?" He caught the stone, his dark curls bouncing, and his grin held, his strength a promise in the swirling dust.
The plaza buzzed, its colored cloths swaying, and the rice piled thick where the Pandavas stood, their joy lifting with the crowd's awe. Duryodhana's shadow slipped away, his blade sheathed but his grudge alive, the festival a vivid clash of their fates, a bright stage for their rise and his bitter fall.