and I cannot bear to see him suffer.”
“I understand,” said Vyasa. “It is well known
that nothing is more important than one’s son.
You, Pandu, Vidura and all your sons
are dear to me. And yet the Pandavas
touch my heart most, as they are most afflicted.”
Knowing the king’s weakness, how he always
bent before the will of his eldest son,
Vyasa summoned the great sage Maitreya
to speak to Duryodhana and his father.
Maitreya had been to see the Pandavas
and, after greeting him appropriately,
Dhritarashtra asked for news of them.
“This is a bad business, Dhritarashtra,”
said the blunt-speaking sage. “It will not do
that, while you are alive, you let this conflict
be played out between your sons and nephews.
A king is the ultimate authority,
for punishment as well as patronage.
How is it, then, that you allowed your son
to organize that catastrophic dice game?
How could you permit such evil goings-on?”
He turned to sullen-faced Duryodhana.
“Listen, son, I speak for your own good.
Do not offend the blameless Pandavas.
All of them are devoted to the truth,
formidable warriors, every one—
strong as elephants, accomplished fighters.
Think of how Bhima slew Jarasandha
and numerous rakshasas—including one
just recently in the forest, Kirmira.
Think of Arjuna’s unrivaled prowess
as an archer; think of their tie with Krishna.
It is pure foolishness for you to think
that you can crush the Pandavas. That way
lies only ignominy, and your own death.”
While the sage was speaking, Duryodhana
was looking at the ground with a fixed smile,
drawing patterns in the dust, as though
indifferent to what the sage was saying.
With desperate bravado, he slapped his thigh.
Maitreya, enraged, cursed him. “Since you treat me
with such disrespect, that thigh of yours
will be broken, leading to your death,
when Bhima fights you in the greatest war
the earth has ever seen—entirely caused
by your own wickedness.” Duryodhana,
despite his defiant manner, felt his heart
shrivel up in dread. Shaken by hearing
of Kirmira’s killing, he left the room.
“May it not happen!” cried the anguished king.
“Unless your son makes peace, then, without doubt,
my curse will be fulfilled,” said Maitreya.
“I never wanted it to be like this,”
moaned Dhritrashtra, “but who in this world
can pit their will against fate? Kindly tell me
how Bhima killed the rakshasa Kirmira.”
But Maitreya had had enough. “Ask Vidura,
he’ll tell you,” he snapped. And then departed.
Later, Vidura told the king the story
of Bhima’s victory over the ogre
who had been seeking to avenge his kinsmen,
Baka and Hidimba. “Once the forest
was safe, your nephews entered it, and settled.
I myself, when I went to visit them,
saw the loathsome body of Kirmira
sprawled on the path, killed by heroic Bhima.”
Dhritarashtra sighed in misery
to think of Bhima’s preternatural strength.
Krishna visited the exiles’ camp,
bringing with him several powerful allies:
warriors from the kingdoms of Panchala
and Chedi, Bhojas, Vrishnis and Andhakas.
All were filled with rage at what had happened.
Never had the brothers witnessed Krishna
so angry, fire blazing in his black eyes.
“Duryodhana, Shakuni and their cronies
are villains! Here are you and Draupadi
condemned to vegetate, year after year,
in rustic poverty, dull, isolated,
deprived of every comfort you have fought for
and deserve. Be assured—the thirsty earth
will drink their blood! They will not prevail.”
To calm his cousin’s rage, Arjuna said,
“Krishna, your sojourn in this world has been
a chronicle of most amazing feats.”
And, at length, in the presence of everyone
gathered there in the forest encampment,
Arjuna, perfect kshatriya, recited
Krishna’s history since the dawn of time:
and all his incarnations up to now,
acting to protect the world from harm.
“We are one being, you and I,” said Krishna.
“Anyone who hates you hates me; your people
are my people too. You are Nara,
I, Narayana, come from another world
for the good of this one. I am you.
You are me, Arjuna. There is no difference.”
The lovely Draupadi addressed Krishna,
tears streaming down like rain onto her breasts.
“Krishna, you are the supreme person,
lord of the world. You know everything that is
and all that is to come. Tell me—how could I,
the most devoted wife, mother, sister,
be dragged from my seclusion by the hair
in front of that assembly, wearing only
one bloodstained garment, and treated like a slave?
The vile Duhshasana insulted me
as no woman should be insulted—still less
one born, as I was, to a royal line.
“Had I no husbands? Even a feeble husband
protects his wife. That is the way of dharma.
And yet the Dharma King and his valiant brothers
sat watching this, motionless and silent
like effigies, while the mother of their sons
was vilely savaged. Even the worthy elders
sat silent, shuffling in their splendid seats.
I despise these men. I have contempt
for skill, heroic strength, for marvelous weapons
that yet allow evil Duryodhana
to live and breathe unpunished, unrepentant.
I won’t forgive it. I was not born for this!
I have no husbands if my humiliation
goes unavenged!”
Krishna said to her,
“Blameless Draupadi, I make this promise:
you will be queen again. And you will witness
the Kaurava wives shrieking with grief to see
their husbands’ corpses sprawled on the battlefield,
cloaked in blood, slain by the Pandavas.
“I wish I had been in that gaming hall!
I never would have held my tongue, as Bhishma
and Drona did, to their eternal shame.
I would have given clear counsel to the king
and, if he persisted, I would have pressed him
to call off the dicing, even to the point
of force if necessary. That dreadful game—
which was no game at all, but perfidy—
brings deferred disaster on the Kauravas,
as well as deprivation upon you.”
Yudhishthira inquired, “How was it, Krishna,
that you were absent from the gambling match?”
“I heard too late about it,” replied Krishna.
“I was caught up in a desperate fight
with Shalva, the demonic king of Saubha.
He’d heard about the death of Shishupala
who
was his brother, and was mad with rage.
While I was still with you at Indraprastha,
he struck Dvaraka from his airborne city
which can travel anywhere, and flattened it.
He destroyed dwellings, wrecked verdant parks,
and killed many brave young Vrishni warriors
before he realized I was not at home.
When I got back and saw the devastation
I went in search of him, and found his city
hovering over the ocean. I attacked,
and a bitter fight followed. He mobilized
his powers of illusion to confuse me.
At one point, I saw my beloved father
being flung out of the flying city,
hurtling to earth like a stricken bird,
his arms and legs flailing. I was appalled
until I realized this was wizardry.
“My charioteer, Daruka, though wounded,
urged me on, and I rallied my army,
mounting an assault with renewed resolve.
The short of it is—I defeated Shalva.
I took my shining bow, aimed it upward,
and cut the heads of Shalva’s men clean off.
He pelted me with rocks until I was
submerged under a mountainous pile of stones.
My troops became despondent, but I raised
my thunderbolt and pulverized the rocks.
“Taking my discus, uttering a mantra,
I hurled it at Saubha, cutting it in two,
and the flying city fell to earth. Again
I raised my discus, aiming now at Shalva,
and sliced him through. The demon was no more.
I razed the city. Then I traveled home
and only then did I receive the news
of the dire events at Hastinapura.”
Soon the time came for sad leave-taking.
Krishna departed, taking Abhimanyu,
and Dhrishtadyumna took Draupadi’s children
back with him to his city of Panchala.
Yudhishthira proposed a change of scene.
Arjuna suggested Dvaitavana,
known as a holy and auspicious site.
20.
DISCORD
Lake Dvaitavana was indeed delightful,
bordered with bright flowers and graceful trees
pendulous with many types of mango
and other fruits. Birds sang among the leaves
of the tall palm, arrac and shala trees—
flocks of doves, linnets and forest cuckoos.
Deer and game were plentiful.
The Pandavas
made their home there, together with the brahmins,
who had brought their sacrificial fires,
and all the ritual objects necessary
for pious observance.
The sage Markandeya,
passing on his way to the Himalaya,
smiled to see Yudhishthira and his brothers
living as forest dwellers, like Prince Rama,
his wife, Sita, and his brother, Lakshmana.
He knew inaction could be hard to bear
and counseled patience. “Wait, Yudhishthira,
do not be tempted to depart from dharma
and wage war on the Kauravas too soon.
Keep your promise, tolerate your exile
and you will retrieve your fortune in the end.”
Time passed by. Yudhishthira was content.
A life stripped of pomp and ceremony,
of luxury, of complex affairs of state,
was the life his introspective nature
welcomed. He had been an excellent ruler—
firm, judicious, capable and fair—
and would be again, but these were years
when he delighted in simplicity,
practiced meditation, learned all he could
from the rishis whose ashrams in the forest
were a haven for him. He took refuge
in the Vedas, and in their wider vision
that lifted his attention from the sorrow
of his current plight.
But not everyone
was at peace. Draupadi was restless.
Rage and grief gnawed at her constantly
until, one evening, she could not keep silent.
“Oh, Yudhishthira, it breaks my heart
to see you like this, living a hermit’s life
when you should be the all-powerful ruler
of Bharatavarsha. I remember you
on your jeweled throne, dressed in rich silk;
now you are wearing garments made of bark.
Once, your skin was fragrant with sandalwood,
and now it is rough, crusty with mud and ash.
“Now no bard sings of your accomplishments.
Have you forgotten who you are? How can you
happily spend time examining
the finer points of scripture with the brahmins,
performing pujas morning, noon and night?
You’re a kshatriya! So are your brave brothers.
Bhima, whose every sinew longs for battle,
who used to be so vigorous and playful,
now droops, despondent. Why, Yudhishthira,
does that not make you angry? Arjuna,
outstanding archer, who could conquer worlds
with his two arms, now sits in idle thought.
Why does the sight of him not rouse your rage?
Tall Nakula, spirited Sahadeva,
accomplished sons of Madri, waste their talents
on chasing birds and shooting animals.
You see me, daughter of a distinguished line,
living like a peasant! Best of Bharatas,
why does all this grief not make you furious?
“Patience may come easily to you
but not to them, and certainly not to me.
We all crave revenge. Have you forgotten
how you were led into a trap, and tricked
so easily? How, then, can you be patient?
“You may be sure that wicked Duryodhana
and his friends take pleasure every day
in contemplating our humiliation.
Do they not deserve harsh punishment?
Don’t you remember how Duryodhana
and his vile brother grossly insulted me?
Only Shakuni and cruel Karna
in that whole assembly did not weep
for shame and pity! Why are you not enraged?
It is said there is no kshatriya
who lacks anger. You are the exception!
You seem to have banished anger from your heart,
but the whole world despises a kshatriya
who buckles under insults such as these
without wrath, lacking determination
to strike with the rod of punishment
those who behave wrongfully toward him—
as is required by kshatriya dharma.
“A kshatriya who allows his enemies
to rejoice in the fruits of their wickedness
is reviled throughout the earth, and rightly so.
Every day, I relive those abuses
and boil to think of how the Kauravas
are reveling in luxury and joy
while we, for want of proper fighting spirit,
live out our days wandering among the trees!
“There is a time for patience in this life
and a time for wrath—surely, if ever
anger should guide your actions, it is now!”
Yudhishthira replied, “Oh, Draupadi,
best of wives, I understand your fury.
But do not think there’s nothing on my mind
but prayer and philosophy. Yes, it is true
I love to sit with the rishis—they can see
beyond this forest, beyond this life, even.
They have their gaze fixed on eternity
&nbs
p; and that helps me achieve a kind of peace
when otherwise I would be overwhelmed
by grief and guilt. I too relive those hours
when I lost everything. I’m keenly aware
of how you suffer now, and how my brothers
waste their manhood here.
“But, Draupadi,
as the wise know, sinful acts arise
from overhasty rushing to revenge.
One who is wronged and who responds with anger
is prone to bad judgment, liable to act
impulsively. Good rarely comes of it.
If every person with a sense of grievance
struck back immediately, where would it end?
Unceasing death inflicted, death returned.
An endless round of blow and counter-blow
allows for no reflection or repentance
and only leads to sorrow upon sorrow.
A peaceful world is founded upon patience
and only when a kingdom is at peace
can children flourish, cows grow fat, and farmers
plant seeds with confidence, watch their crops grow,
and gather a rich harvest.
“I believe
that forbearance is the strength of the strong.
One who is forbearing retains power.
Anger is not strength but, rather, weakness;
it is not the same as authority.
True, I was entrapped, but it was my madness
that lost us every precious thing we owned.
I knew the terms. I played. I lost the game
and agreed to these years of banishment.
If now I were to go back on my word,
I would be as sinful as the Kauravas.”
“I think the Almighty has addled you!”
retorted Draupadi. “Rather than follow
the path blazed by your ancestors, your mind
has veered off on a different tack entirely.
There is no justice if a man like you—
the very soul of dharma—can encounter
such misfortune. Until the dreadful day
when the passion for gambling possessed you,
no one was more virtuous than you,
Yudhishthira. You have always served the gods,
the brahmins, the ancestors—and yet
grief is your reward. It makes no sense.
The Almighty is not like a loving parent
but, like a child playing with its toys,
manipulates our limbs, controls the strings
as though we were wooden puppets. I believe
there’s no such thing as freedom, no mastery
over ourselves or anybody else.
Well, I utterly condemn a God
who can allow such vile injustices
as have afflicted us! What can he gain
by giving fortune to such wicked wretches
as the Kauravas? If it is true