Oil lamps flickered in the palace dining hall, their warm glow dancing across long tables laden with roasted meats, bread loaves, and bowls of spiced lentils. Evening had settled over Hastinapura, the air thick with the scent of cumin and sizzling fat, and musicians strummed lutes in a corner, their soft notes weaving through the hum of voices. Servants bustled between the tables, their trays clinking with clay cups and platters, their sandals scuffing the stone floor. Bhima sat at a table near the hall's center, his broad frame hunched over a haunch of goat, grease glistening on his chin as he tore into it with big, eager bites. His dark curls bounced as he laughed, his shirtless chest bare under a loose vest, his boots kicking the bench beneath him.
Arjuna sat beside him, his bow propped against the table, picking at a piece of bread with quick, nimble fingers. His tunic flapped as he leaned forward, his sharp eyes glinting with mischief. Kunti sat across the hall, her crimson sari taut over her shoulders, her dark hair tied back as she sipped from a cup, her gaze drifting over the crowd. Duryodhana hovered by the servants near the wall, his dark tunic blending with the shadows, his small hands tucked into his sleeves. He smirked, his dark curls framing his face, and slipped a pinch of powder from his sleeve into a dish as a servant passed, his fingers quick and sly. Duhshasana lingered nearby, his fair hair tangled, giggling softly as he watched, his small frame buzzing with excitement.
Bhima ripped off another chunk of meat, his voice booming, gruff and cheerful as he waved the haunch, grease dripping. "Best goat yet—more! Bring it quick!" He grinned, his teeth flashing, and the servants scurried, their trays tilting as they nodded.
Arjuna laughed, his voice sharp and teasing as he tore his bread, his small hands quick. "Save some, big belly! You'll burst before the lutes stop!" He popped a piece into his mouth, his grin wide, and a few nearby diners chuckled, their cups clinking.
Duryodhana's smirk widened, his voice hissing, low and sly as he handed the dish to a servant, his dark tunic rustling. "Choke on it, oaf. Eat your fill." He stepped back, his small frame melting into the shadows, and his eyes glinted as the servant carried the plate to Bhima.
Bhima grabbed the dish, his voice loud and bold as he dug in, his fingers greasy. "Fill? I'm just starting—watch me!" He tore into the meat, his broad shoulders shaking with a laugh, and the hall's cheer swelled, the musicians' lutes strumming faster.
Kunti's cup paused at her lips, her dark eyes narrowing as she watched Duryodhana retreat, her sari tightening as she gripped the clay harder. Her voice stayed silent, but her jaw clenched, her suspicion flickering like the lamps overhead. Arjuna leaned back, his voice sharp and bright as he nudged Bhima, his bread forgotten. "Starting? You've had three already—slow down, big man!" He grinned, his small frame buzzing, and a servant refilled his cup, the water splashing faintly.
Bhima swallowed, his voice gruff and cheerful as he wiped his chin, grease smearing. "Slow? Never—tastes too good!" He took another bite, then paused, his brow furrowing as his stomach gurgled, a low rumble cutting through his laugh. He grunted, his hand resting on his belly, and the hall's noise dipped, a few heads turning.
Duryodhana's smirk faltered, his voice low and tense as he muttered to Duhshasana, his small fists clenching. "Feel it, oaf—go down hard." He leaned forward, his dark tunic creasing, and his eyes locked on Bhima, his breath held.
Duhshasana giggled, his voice shrill and quick as he clapped his hands, his fair hair bouncing. "Hard! Fall over, big fool—do it!" He hopped on his toes, his small tunic flapping, and a servant nearby glanced over, his tray dipping.
Bhima's grunt turned into a belch, loud and rolling, echoing over the lutes as he slapped his chest, his grin returning. "Tastes funny—still good! More goat—now!" He tore into the dish again, his broad frame unshaken, and the crowd laughed, their cheers rising, drowning the musicians' tune.
Arjuna's eyes widened, his voice sharp and teasing as he leaned closer, his bread dropping. "Funny? You're iron, Bhima—nothing stops that gut!" He clapped Bhima's shoulder, his small hands quick, and the diners nearby roared, their cups banging the tables.
Kunti set her cup down, her voice soft but firm as she stood, her sari swaying. "Iron, yes. But funny's not right—watch yourself, Bhima." She stepped forward, her dark eyes locking on Duryodhana, and her suspicion ignited, her grip tightening on the table's edge.
Bhima finished the plate, his voice loud and bold as he dusted his hands, grease smearing. "Watch? I'm fine—stronger than ever! Little prince looks sour, though!" He laughed, his dark curls bouncing, and his eyes narrowed briefly at Duryodhana, a flicker of something sharp cutting through his mirth.
Duryodhana's smirk vanished, his voice fierce and low as he retreated to Duhshasana, his small fists tight. "Fine? He's a beast—should've dropped! We'll fix it next time." He crossed his arms, his dark tunic blending with the wall, and his frustration twisted into menace.
Duhshasana nodded, his voice shrill and wild as he hopped beside him, his fair hair falling into his eyes. "Next time! Drop him good, brother—real good!" He punched the air, his small frame trembling, and a servant paused, his tray tilting as he stared.
Arjuna's voice rang out, sharp and bright as he picked up his bread again, his grin wide. "Drop? He's laughing at you! Good try, little prince—better luck!" He tore a piece off, his small hands restless, and the hall's cheer swelled, the lutes strumming on.
Bhima belched again, his voice gruff and cheerful as he leaned back, his broad frame filling the bench. "Luck? He'll need it—I'm still hungry! More meat!" He waved a hand, his grin unshaken, and the servants scurried, their trays clinking as the crowd roared.
Kunti's gaze shifted, her voice low and steady as she murmured, her sari taut. "Hungry's good. But something's off—Dhritarashtra needs to know." She turned, her dark eyes locking on the head table where Dhritarashtra sat, his blind face turned toward the noise, and her suspicion burned, steady and sharp.
Duryodhana watched, his voice bitter and low as he muttered to Duhshasana, his small frame tense. "Know? Let her talk—I'll top this. He won't laugh long." He stormed toward the hall's edge, his dark tunic vanishing into the crowd, and Duhshasana trailed, his nods eager.
The musicians played on, their lutes a soft thread beneath the hall's jubilation, and Bhima's laughter rolled over it, his resilience a beacon. Arjuna's ease sharpened into alertness, his sharp eyes darting to Kunti, and the feast's cheer masked the sour turn, the air thick with hidden intent. Kunti rose fully, her sari swaying as she moved toward Dhritarashtra, her steps firm, the battleground of the hall shifting beneath the revelry.