incognito. If he is recognized,
then another thirteen years of exile
must begin. But if he succeeds in hiding
his identity, then his former kingdom
will be returned to him. Those will be the terms
of the wager. But in fact, by then,
we will have used his absence to assemble
a huge and loyal army, and to garner
powerful allies; so, if it comes to war,
we will easily defeat the Pandavas.”
Ignoring the advice of wise counselors,
the king, fearing the vengeance of his nephews,
prepared to send after Yudhishthira
with this renewed summons. Queen Gandhari
came and pleaded with him. She loved her son
but she feared the portents, and knew disaster
dwelt in the person of Duryodhana.
“I understand, my lord, why, at his birth,
you could not bring yourself to kill our son,
a helpless infant—despite the prophecy
and worthy Vidura’s advice. But now
you must oppose him. Surely it is fathers
who should dictate to sons, not the reverse.
The great-hearted Pandavas agree to peace.
You must lead Duryodhana by example
before he brings down ruin on us all.”
“If fate decrees the ruin of our race,”
said Dhritarashtra, “I cannot oppose it.
Let the Pandavas return. Let our son
gamble once more with Yudhishthira.”
A messenger pursued the Pandavas
and caught up with them on the road to home.
They were shocked and angry, but Yudhishthira
felt unable to refuse the summons.
“What happens to us, good and bad, depends
on what’s ordained. Whether I accept
or refuse, in the end it makes no difference.”
Sorrowful, head bowed, Yudhishthira
seated himself before the gaming table,
flanked by his four brothers, oppressed by fate.
In the tense silence before play began
his eyes happened to fall on Karna’s feet.
They struck him as familiar. Then he forgot.
Opposite, Shakuni smiled unctuously.
He explained the new terms of the game,
what was at stake. Yudhishthira’s face was blank.
He threw. Shakuni threw, and “Look,” he said,
“Look, I have won!”
At once, the Pandavas
prepared for exile, shedding their princely clothes,
wrapping themselves in crudely cured deerskins,
Draupadi still wearing her bloodstained robe.
Duhshasana could not contain his glee
and danced around the brothers, taunting them.
“These sons of Pandu are no men, they’re eunuchs!
All this time they have been puffed up with pride,
contemptuous of the sons of Dhritarashtra,
but now they are brought crashing to the earth.
Choose a different husband, Draupadi—
the Pandavas are nothing now, mere husks
without substance.”
As they left the hall,
Duryodhana did a grotesque imitation
of Bhima’s leonine walk. “You stupid fool,”
said Wolf-belly, “your idiotic antics
will come back to haunt you when I tear you
limb from limb, and break that thigh of yours,
and when I rip open Duhshasana’s chest
and drink his blood.”
“Be sure,” said Arjuna
“that Bhima’s words are true.” He turned to Karna.
“More certain than the sun’s brightness, more certain
than the moon’s coldness is this vow of mine:
that thirteen years from now, I will dispatch you,
son of Radha, to the realm of Death
if, on that day, our kingdom is not returned.”
Yudhishthira said farewell to Bhishma
who blessed him. “Son, by your worthy actions
you have surpassed even your ancestors.
Go well. I shall look to your return.”
Vidura proposed to Yudhishthira
that Kunti, being frail with age, should stay
in Hastinapura, with him, and not face
the rigors of the forest. Pale, sobbing,
Kunti said goodbye to her mighty sons.
Taking Draupadi aside, she said,
“My dear one, I know you are strong and brave.
You will come through this. Please keep special watch
on Sahadeva, my youngest, favorite son.
Help him to guard against despondency.
Oh, why has this disaster befallen you?
It must be due to my own ill fortune.
If I had known my family would wander
the pathless forest, having lost everything,
I never would have brought my growing sons
to Hastinapura after Pandu’s death.
Pandu, I now think, was most fortunate
only to know our sons in times of joy;
he never dreamed of sorrow such as this.”
As the Pandavas walked through the city
Yudhishthira draped his shawl across his face
lest his furious glance should cast the evil eye.
Bhima strode with his massive arms outspread
to strike fear in the hearts of his opponents.
Arjuna scattered sand as he walked along,
each grain standing for an enemy
he would one day strike down with his arrows.
Sahadeva had covered up his face,
while Nakula, lest women should weep for him,
had smeared himself with dust from head to foot.
Draupadi said, “As I am stained with blood,
so, thirteen years from now, Kaurava women
will be smeared with the blood of their slaughtered sons
and offer up oblations for their dead.”
Crowds of grieving people lined the streets.
Then the Pandavas passed through the city gate
accompanied by devoted brahmins
led by Dhaumya, their household priest,
holding sacrificial kusa grass,
intoning the most somber Vedic verses.
Shortly after the unfortunate exiles,
no longer visible to straining eyes,
had disappeared among the forest trees,
the sky became green, and grew strangely dark
as if the forces of the night were coveting
the brilliance of day. There were other portents
and premonitions, dreams and appearances,
so that dread, rather than joy, soon pervaded
Dhritarashtra’s court. The seer Narada
appeared and addressed the Kauravas: “Take heed!
In thirteen years, you misguided princes
who hear my words now will die violently
through Duryodhana’s actions, and through the might
of the Pandavas.” And, having spoken,
the seer strode up into the sky and vanished.
Duryodhana, Karna and Duhshasana
were horrified, and appealed to Drona
to protect them from the wrath to come.
“The Pandavas are sons of gods,” said Drona,
“and it is said that they can not be killed.
Nevertheless, when the time comes, I shall not
abandon those who ask for my protection,
even though I know my life is forfeit.
Dhrishtadyumna, prince of the Panchalas,
has sworn to kill me, to avenge his father.
He will surely succeed on the battlefield.”
Dhritarashtra, listening, said, “Vidura,
bring back the Panda
vas. Or, if it’s too late,
at least send them our blessings.” And he sat
wringing his hands. His attendant, Sanjaya,
questioned him. “Why do you fret and groan—
you have obtained vast wealth, and the whole kingdom.”
“Ah,” said Dhritarashtra, “I can only think
of the future, and its terrible punishment.”
“My lord, that is your doing,” said Sanjaya.
“You would not listen to the words of wisdom
offered by Vidura, nor to the portents.
Through his wickedness, your foolish son
will be the death of all the Kauravas.”
“It is the work of fate,” sighed Dhritarashtra.
“I always try to make the best decisions,
but when the gods intend someone’s defeat
they first make him mad, so that the wrong course
seems to him the right one. The power of fate
can be simply this twisted view of things.
All else follows. The Pandavas will never
forgive the way Draupadi was insulted.
Knowing their strength, and aware that Krishna
is their ally, I have never wanted
conflict with them. Yet my foolishness,
my great love for my son, will bring about
the all-consuming tragedy of war.”
III
THE BOOK OF THE FOREST
19.
EXILE BEGINS
That first evening, they halted at the Ganga
where they would spend their first homeless night.
They found a majestic banyan tree, its roots
drooping to the ground, and earthed like pillars—
a natural temple where they lay down to sleep.
Waking at sunrise, they were ravenous
but had no food other than leaves and berries.
Yudhishthira was worried. How would he
feed his family, let alone the others?
“My friends,” he said, turning to the brahmins,
“I’m touched by your devotion, I’m most grateful
that you’ve come this far with us from the city,
but you must go back—I can’t provide for you.
There isn’t even a grain of rice to eat
and it will get worse. We shall all starve.”
The wise brahmin Shaunaka spoke to him.
“People like you, those with understanding,
should not collapse under a heavy weight
of sorrow of the mind or of the body,
but should dispel it through acquiring insight.
Desire tends to feed upon itself.”
Yudhishthira said, “I do not desire wealth
out of greed, for the enjoyment of it,
but to enable me to support brahmins
like yourselves. I am a householder,
it is my duty to give sustenance
to those who live on generosity.”
“But make sure,” said Shaunaka, “that duty
is not performed in order to store up
merit for the dutiful. The Vedas teach,
‘Carry out your duty, and renounce it.’”
Other brahmins said, “Yudhishthira,
do you think we are strangers to privation?
We’ve chosen to entwine our lives with yours,
reciting prayers for you, comforting you
with teaching from the scriptures. How we eat
is our responsibility, not yours.”
Yudhishthira was moved, but still he worried
about the welfare of his followers.
Dhaumya spoke, “Lord Surya, the sun god,
is the source of all foods on this earth.
Pray to him—he will help you feed us all.”
Yudhishthira fasted for two days and nights,
never sleeping, mastering his breath,
and, on the third day, walked into the river,
the mighty Ganga, as it was getting light
and raised his face toward the rising sun.
He stood waist deep, with the silky water
flowing all around him.
“O lord Surya
enemy of darkness
origin of all things
you who are the eye of the universe
giver of strength to every living thing
you who are fire
you who are subtle mind
you who are the unlocked door
the comfort of those who thirst for freedom
source of all light
source of all comforting warmth
giver of beauty beyond all imagining
O lord, hear my prayer, enable me
to feed my precious brothers, my wife, my friends
who are suffering in this wilderness
on my account.”
So sang Yudhishthira,
reciting the sun’s hundred and eight names
in the language of the gods.
Self-luminous
Surya, blazing, beautiful, showed himself
in his incarnate form, over the water.
“I shall grant your prayer. I will provide
nourishment for as many as are hungry—
there will be meat, fruits, roots and vegetables
until the last person is satisfied.
For all your twelve years in the wilderness
I will make sure that your needs are met.”
Having spoken, the shining god vanished.
Emerging from the river, Yudhishthira
set himself to cook a meager meal
of all the forest foods that could be found—
insufficient even for a child.
Once cooked, it swelled. He served everyone,
and even Bhima’s monstrous appetite
was satisfied. Finally Draupadi
served Yudhishthira, and then she ate
what remained, which was enough, precisely.
Afterward, they continued on their journey
to their new home in the Kamyaka Forest.
Meanwhile, in Hastinapura, the blind king
was agitated, in a feverish sweat
of fear and guilt. At night he paced his chambers.
was overrun by angry citizens
baying for his life. He woke, gasping.
He sent for sagacious Vidura, hoping
for words of consolation. But Vidura
offered no comfort. He condemned outright
the dire proceedings in the gaming hall.
“There’s only one way to avoid disaster—
forsake misguided Duryodhana,
restore your nephews to their rightful kingdom,
and banish that troublemaker, Shakuni.”
Dhritarashtra turned cantankerous:
“You always take the side of Pandu’s sons.
But Duryodhana is flesh of my flesh—
how can I abandon my own body
to favor others, even if it’s at fault?
It’s simply impossible. And as for you—
Go and join your precious Pandavas.
The forest is where you properly belong!”
Vidura, glad to leave the gloom and sorrow
of the court, took his chariot and, tracking
the Pandavas by asking strangers, crossing
the Yamuna, and then the Sarasvati,
reached their camp, in the Kamyaka Forest
where many devout hermits had made their home.
On seeing him approach, Yudhishthira
wondered if he was bringing a new challenge,
a bid by Shakuni to win their weapons,
but he was soon reassured. The Pandavas
welcomed their uncle, eager for his news.
He told them how things were at Hastinapura,
and what the king had said.
Vidura passed
deligh
tful days in the pleasant clearing
beside the Sarasvati. But secretly,
his mind often flew to Hastinapura,
to the brother he had loved and served
since they were boys. He knew Dhritarashtra
must be yearning for his company
and he himself longed to give him comfort.
So he was glad when Dhritarashtra’s aide,
Sanjaya, arrived with a message for him:
“The king regrets his words, and is most anxious
for your return. You are his eyes and heart
in a dark world. Without you, he is lost.”
Duryodhana was furious when he saw
his blind father closeted once more
with Vidura—afraid that, yet again,
his father would backtrack and vacillate
out of sentimental love for his nephews,
and out of fear. Although the Pandavas
had accepted banishment with bowed heads,
as long as they still walked the earth somewhere
Duryodhana could have no peace of mind.
“Suppose Vidura should persuade my father
to reinstate them? If I see them return
I shall take poison, hang myself—or something!
I cannot bear to see them prosperous.”
“Of course they won’t come back,” said Shakuni.
“You’re getting agitated for no reason.
They lost the bet—surely you can’t imagine
Yudhishthira reneging on the terms?
Your fears are childishness.” Duhshasana
and Karna took the same view. But the prince
remained despondent. “Listen to me,” said Karna,
“it seems nothing but action will convince you.
Let us go at once to kill the Pandavas
in the forest, while they are undefended.”
The other three were pleased with this idea.
They armed themselves, and made preparations
to start the journey.
But great-minded Vyasa,
seeing the plotters with his divine eye,
came to Dhritarashtra. “You should know this—
your wicked fool of a son is making plans
to go and kill your nephews in the forest.
There is no way that he can be successful—
he’ll die himself. You must put a stop to it.
Perhaps if he spent time with the Pandavas
without his henchmen, he might grow to love them.
But no—a tiger doesn’t change its stripes.
What do you think of all this, Dhritarashtra?
What do the elders think?”
“I think it’s fate,”
said the unhappy king. “I knew the dice game
was ill-judged—the elders thought the same.
But I love my son—I can’t stand against him,