A/N: This fic is set during the clip in Azeem O Shaan Shahenshah where the gold is weighed against Akbar, so that he can dispense charity to the people.

The celebrations are in full afoot when Jodhaa arrives. It makes her heart swell to see how her husband has won the people's hearts (and hers). She is so proud of him, and so touched that he has answered her challenge to the fullest. He has risen sharply in her esteem (and in her love as well, even if she keeps that tucked so deep inside her she scarcely acknowledges it). He has even had the title "Akbar" accorded to him, purely through the goodwill of his own people.

He now plans to give out an amount of goal equal to his weight in charity. An enormous scale has been set up under the veranda, a carved lion at each end. He sits on one plate as bags of gold are piled onto the other end. All around them, dancers and singers coalesce, their songs and rhythm almost shaking the palace. The spectacle reminds her of the Tulabharam, of how Satyabhama learned an important lesson about the true things that matter in life. All the gold in Dwarka could not outweigh Lord Krishna, but a single tulsi leaf, given out of pure devotion by Rukmini Devi, was enough to tip the scales.

Jodhaa smirks to imagine the same events playing out today. What if they pile on all the gold in the Red Fort, only for the scale to remain resolutely stubborn, and only a sprig of basil from her own hands can tip the scale?

But she would not want that: the events of the past few months have made it clear that she cannot continue to cling to her customs so fiercely, not if they are to move past the mistakes of the last few months. Besides, the Mughal court would hardly know what to make of it; the significance of such a gesture would be lost on them.

With a sudden thrill of fear, she sees that her husband's plate is still on the ground, despite several bags of gold piled on the other end. Dear God, have her musings cursed the proceedings?

Two of her countrymen have brought a magnificent jeweled sword; she places it on top of the mound, and finally, finally the scale tips, and her husband is aloft. A cheer arises from the crowds, and the two of them share a smile, a smile that sends warmth rippling through her being.

The procession moves out of the inner courtyard and charges into the city, to begin giving out alms to their loyal subjects. Jodhaa watches them go, beaming. Though her husband is no Krishna, God Himself born again on earth, or any kind of righteous Hindu man at all, and she is no Rukmini, and far from the ideal wife, her heart flutters at the thought that they may well share a love as pure and as ardent, and that they have the rest of their lives to cherish that love.

A/N: The title is the name of a Hindu myth about Krishna, his two wives, and a scale. The connection between the scale scene from "Azeem O Shaan Shahenshah" and the Tulabharam, along with Jodhaa's frightened look as Akbar is being weighed, inspired this fic.