Janajaya said:
“After delivering Duryodhana from the Gandharvas, what did the mighty sons of Pāṇḍu do in the forest, O sage? Tell this.”
Vaiśampāyana replied:
Once, as king Yudhiṣṭhira lay asleep in the woods of Dvaita, a strange vision ca to him. In his dream, a band of deer appeared before him—eyes moist with tears, their slender bodies trembling. With joined palms uplifted, they stood as suppliants.
The son of Dharma, compassionate even in sleep, addressed them gently:
“Who are you, O timid ones? What is your sorrow? Speak without fear, for the sons of Kuntī listen with compassion.”
Then those deer, the remnant of their herds, replied with voices broken by grief:
“O king, we are the few survivors of countless kin slain by thy brothers’ arrows. The rangers of the forest have been thinned, and we remain only like the last seeds after harvest. If thou dost continue to dwell here, O mighty monarch, we shall perish utterly. Have rcy, therefore, and remove thy camp, that our kind may yet increase.”
Hearing this lant of the wild creatures, Yudhiṣṭhira’s heart was pierced with sorrow. The king, ever intent upon the welfare of all beings, answered in the dream:
“So be it. Out of pity for you, I shall act as you have spoken.”
When dawn broke, the son of Dharma rose and recalled the vision. His heart heavy with compassion, he gathered his brothers and said:
“O Bhīma, O Arjuna, O sons of Mādrī—last night the deer themselves ca before in dream, lanting their destruction. We have hunted and fed upon them for a year and eight months. They are now but remnants, trembling like stalks after harvest. Shall not compassion guide us? Let us, therefore, quit this forest and repair to the holy Kamyaka, fair with lakes and groves, rich in herds, standing at the head of the desert near Lake Trinavindu. There shall we dwell peacefully, and the creatures here may revive.”
Thus resolved, the Pāṇḍavas, ever obedient to Dharma, departed swiftly. Accompanied by Brahmanas, ascetics, and their followers, led by Indrasena and other attendants, they journeyed along roads trodden by travellers, lined with fertile fields and clear waters.
At length they beheld once more the sacred forest of Kamyaka, radiant with ascetic rit, fragrant with blossoms, and abounding in wild beasts. And as the righteous pass into heaven, so did the sons of Pāṇḍu, surrounded by holy Brahmanas, re-enter that forest, making it their abode.
Dwelling in the forest, O bull of the Bharatas, the high-souled Pāṇḍavas spent eleven long years in misery. Though born to happiness and sovereign power, they lived now on fruits and roots, brooding over their calamity.
Yudhiṣṭhira, mighty-ard and ever mindful of dharma, lay awake many nights, rembering with grief that the exile of his brothers was born of his own folly at the dice. Like one pierced with a lance, he sighed heavily, recalling the cruel taunts of Karṇa. Though wrath burned within him, he restrained it for the sake of his vow.
Arjuna, Bhīma, the sons of Mādrī, and fair Draupadī, gazing upon their brother-king, felt pain sharper than their own hunger. But as the ti of exile drew nearer to its end, hope and rage mingled within them. They hardened their bodies and hearts like warriors shaping weapons of war.
It was then that the great Ṛṣi Vyāsa, son of Satyavatī, ca to see them. Beholding his grandsires gaunt, clad in bark, living on the wilderness’ yield, compassion stirred his heart.
Yudhiṣṭhira rose swiftly to receive him, bowed low, and after honouring him with due rites, sat before him eager for counsel. Vyāsa, beholding their plight, spoke with a voice heavy with pity:
“O son of Dharma, n do not attain great joy without hardship. Happiness and misery alternate like day and night. None in this world tastes unbroken bliss. A wise man, knowing this truth, is not overjoyed at fortune nor crushed by sorrow. He enjoys what cos, and bears what cos—just as the sower of seed must endure the season’s turns.
Know, O king, there is nothing superior to tapas. By austerity is won every fruit. By truth, by restraint of anger, by justice, by mastery of senses, by absence of malice, by purity and guilelessness—by these is a man cleansed. The fruit of deeds here is reaped in another birth. Therefore, restrain thyself, practise vows, and give in charity. For one who gives in humility, with cheerful spirit, to a worthy soul, is lifted to happiness.”
Yudhiṣṭhira then asked the sage:
“Of the two, O revered one—charity and asceticism—which is greater, and which harder of practice?”
Vyāsa replied:
“O child, charity is harder than austerity. Wealth is won with toil, and n cling to it fiercely. So brave the ocean, so the forest, so bend their backs to plough and cattle, so sell themselves in service—all for wealth. To part with it freely is the hardest of acts. Therefore, giving is supre, greater than all vows.
But hear this—wealth ill-gotten brings no fruit. A gift made with unclean hands cannot lift the giver from rebirth. Yet even a morsel, given at the right ti, in purity, to a worthy man, yields inexhaustible rit. Thus was it of old with Mudgala, who by giving but a single drona of grain attained eternal fruit.”
Vyāsa said:
In Kurukṣetra, O king, there lived a sage nad Mudgala, pure of heart, truthful, guileless, and master of his senses. He lived by the śila and uñchha modes of life, gathering stray grains in the fields like a pigeon pecking crumbs. Yet, though his ans were agre, his heart was vast, for he entertained guests, perford the isti sacrifices, and shared whatever he had.
Every fortnight he and his wife and son lived on but a drona of corn. Whatever remained after feeding gods, guests, and Brahmanas, he accepted cheerfully. On days sacred to the moon, even the lord of the heavens, Indra, ca invisibly to partake of his offering.
And lo, whenever a guest arrived, the corn he had collected multiplied mysteriously. Such was the power of his pure spirit in giving, that his agre store beca inexhaustible, feeding hundreds of Brahmanas with grace.
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But then ca Durvāsas, the terrible sage,
His body sared with dust, his hair unbound,
Clad in rags, eyes blazing, speech harsh as thunder,
Testing the steadfastness of Mudgala’s soul.
Hungry and fierce, Durvāsas consud all the food placed before him. Unsated, he sared his limbs with the scraps and went away.
Again he ca, season after season, demanding food, devouring it all, leaving none for the sage or his family. Yet Mudgala, unmoved, collected corn anew, bore hunger without complaint, and never let anger, guile, or sha touch his heart.
Six tis did Durvāsas thus test him, and six tis Mudgala remained unshaken, like the Himalaya amidst storms.
At last Durvāsas, well-pleased, spoke to him:
“O Mudgala, there is none on earth like thee!
Hunger breaks patience, craving destroys righteousness,
The tongue entices, the mind is restless,
Yet thou hast mastered them all.
Self-restraint, justice, fortitude, rcy—
All virtues dwell in thee as in a holy shrine.
Thy deeds resound in heaven; the gods themselves proclaim thy glory.
Thou shalt ascend to the blessed worlds in this very body.”
Even as he spoke, a divine ssenger descended in a radiant chariot, yoked with swans and cranes, adorned with bells, fragrant with heavenly scents, resplendent with painted scenes, and moving at will through the skies.
“O sage,” said the ssenger, “enter this car. By thy gifts, by thy vows, by thy unwavering soul, thou hast won heaven. Ascend, O Mudgala, to the regions of the gods!”
But Mudgala, steadfast and wise, did not leap with joy. Instead he questioned:
“Tell , O ssenger of the celestials—
What is heaven? Who dwells there?
What joys are theirs, and what sorrows?
What austerities win that realm, and what purposes are fulfilled therein?
For it is said: even to walk seven steps with the righteous is friendship.
By that bond I ask thee—speak truly, speak what is for my good.
Having heard, I shall choose my path.”
The divine ssenger spoke:
“O sage of pure vows, why dost thou hesitate? Having earned heaven through austerity and charity, why dost thou yet deliberate like a doubting soul? Hear then of that world above the earth, where virtue’s fruit is gathered.
There rise shining regions, lofty and vast, threaded with resplendent paths, traversed by celestial cars. None may enter there who are faithless, deceitful, or unpurified by sacrifice. Only n of virtue—self-restrained, guileless, free from malice, steadfast in charity—ascend to those radiant worlds. There dwell heroes fallen in battle, righteous sacrificers, sages, the Gandharvas and Apsaras, the Sādhyas and Dharmas, all shining in their own light.
There stands golden ru, thirty-three thousand yojanas high, crowned with groves divine—Nandana and others—where the blessed sport forever. No hunger, no thirst, no decay, no grief, nor fear resides there. Every fragrance is sweet, every breeze delightful, every sound charming to ear and heart. Garlands never fade, dust never soils, sweat nor stench nor weariness exists. Such is heaven, wrought by rit, bestowed by deeds.
Higher still are the sanctuaries of Brahmā, where dwell the Ribhus, gods of the very gods—unfading, free of desire, beyond joy and sorrow, untouched by dissolution. Even the celestials covet their state.
Thus, O Mudgala, is heaven’s bliss. Thou hast earned it by thine unwavering charity. Ascend, therefore, and rejoice.”
But then the ssenger spoke further, lowering his voice:
“Yet know also its imperfection. For in heaven none may act anew. One may only reap what was sown before. When rit is spent, the blessed must fall, cast down to earth like birds with broken wings. Their fading garlands foretell their descent; fear and regret invade their hearts. Having tasted joy beyond asure, they suffer the pang of losing it. Even Brahmā’s world is not free of this fall.
Yet those who descend return to human birth, endowed with fortune proportionate to their rit. If wisdom awakens in them, they ascend higher; if folly clings, they are bound once more. Thus is heaven transient, a shining fruit that ripens only to be consud.”
Hearing this, Mudgala reflected long. At last he spoke with calm clarity:
“I bow to thee, O ssenger divine. Yet I seek not joys that fade, nor heavens where garlands wither. What profit in a bliss that ends in anguish? I shall strive for that supre abode where there is no grief, no fear, no fall. Tell of that realm beyond defect.”
The ssenger replied:
“Above Brahmā’s heaven lies the eternal seat of Viṣṇu, Para Brahman itself—pure, luminous, changeless. None bound to desire or pride, none stained by anger or envy, none distracted by sense-objects may enter there. Only they who are free from attachnt, steadfast in contemplation, absorbed in Yoga, reach that imperishable state.”
Vyāsa concluded:
Hearing this, Mudgala dismissed the ssenger with honour, and turned inward. Praise and bla beca alike to him; gold and clay, a stone and a jewel, shone the sa in his sight. He dwelt ever in ditation, his mind anchored in Brahman. By knowledge and detachnt he transcended birth and death, attaining that supre emancipation which is eternal and unfailing.
Therefore, O son of Kuntī, grieve not over exile or loss. Like Mudgala, bear adversity with patience. Misery and joy revolve like the rim of a wheel about the axle. When the thirteenth year is ended, thou shalt regain thy kingdom, as once enjoyed by thy sire and grandsire. Let thy heart’s fever be stilled.”
So saying, the sage Vyāsa departed, returning to his hermitage for austerities.
Janajaya said:
“O Brāhmaṇa, while the high-souled sons of Pṛthā dwelt in the forest, sustaining themselves by the gifts of the Sun, conversing with ascetics and feeding Brāhmaṇas before Draupadī herself partook of food, how did wicked Duryodhana and his brothers, guided by Karṇa, Śakuni, and Duḥśāsana, deal with them? Tell , O sage, what ill design was wrought.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Then, O king, when Duryodhana heard that the sons of Pāṇḍu, though exiled, lived happily in the woods, surrounded by Ṛṣis, his heart burned with envy. With Karṇa, Duḥśāsana, and Śakuni he sched ever new ways to bring them harm.
At that very ti the fierce ascetic Durvāsā, unpredictable in wrath, ca to Hastināpura with ten thousand disciples, each like blazing fire. Duryodhana, beholding him, rose with humility, bowing like a servant, washing his feet, serving him by day and night, awaiting each command in fear of the sage’s curse.
Sotis Durvāsā demanded food at once, ‘Quickly! I am hungry!’ At tis he returned late from the river, saying coldly, ‘I have no appetite tonight.’ At midnight he would awaken, crying, ‘Prepare a feast for us now!’ Then, after the als were readied, he would disdain them, leave them untouched, and depart in silence.
Thus he tested Duryodhana, watching his temper, his patience, his false humility. But the prince never showed anger nor weariness. Pleased, Durvāsā at last spoke with softened voice:
‘O Kuru prince, thou hast pleased . Ask a boon. Whatever desire lies nearest thy heart—if it be not opposed to Dharma—shall be granted thee.’
Then, O king, Duryodhana’s heart leapt with joy, for he had already conspired with Karṇa and Duḥśāsana what boon he should beg. With hands folded he said:
‘O holy one, my elder brother Yudhiṣṭhira, most righteous of n, dwells in the forest with his brothers and Draupadī. Be thou their guest, as thou hast been mine. Yet, O Brāhmaṇa, visit them at that ti when the princess of Pāñcāla, after feeding the Brāhmaṇas, her husbands, and herself, lies down to rest. Then, O sage, do thou, with thy ten thousand disciples, demand food of her.’
Durvāsā replied with terrible simplicity:
‘Even so shall it be, for thy satisfaction.’
Thus promising, the dread ascetic departed as he had co. Duryodhana, seeing his plan fulfilled, rejoiced as one who had gained the world. Taking Karṇa by the hand, he said with delight:
‘All our desires are attained! Draupadī and the sons of Pāṇḍu are dood to fall under Durvāsā’s fiery wrath.’
And Karṇa, smiling cruelly, answered:
‘By fortune thy wish is secured. Already thy enemies sink into a sea of peril, from which none may escape. The sons of Pāṇḍu, by their own hand, have summoned their ruin. They cannot withstand the fire of Durvāsā’s curse. Let us rejoice, for destruction now hovers over them.’
Thus conspiring, the Kauravas returned to their hos, their hearts drunk with malice, while destiny, unseen, prepared to shield the sons of Pāṇḍu.”
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