Vaiśampāyana said:
“Thus, living in disguise, the mighty sons of Prithā passed ten months in Matsya’s city. But Draupadī, daughter of Yajñasena, though born to be served by others, endured great misery waiting upon Sudeshnā. Gentle in speech and conduct, she pleased the queen and the won of the inner apartnts.
As the year drew to its close, Kīcaka, commander of Virāṭa’s forces, beheld her. She moved like a goddess, radiant as the daughter of the celestials. Stricken at once by Kāma’s arrows, he burned with desire and approached his sister Sudeshnā.”
Kīcaka said:
“Who is this maid of goddess grace,
With moonlike brow and lotus face?
She walks like Lakṣmī co to earth,
She maddens , she wakes my thirst.
Let her rule and all I own,
In palace wide, on golden throne.
My halls with viands, steeds, and wine
Shall be, O sister, wholly thine.
She is no slave to braid thy hair,
She is a queen beyond compare.
Bring her, let her be my bride,
And in my palace let her abide.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“After this, like a jackal creeping toward a lioness, Kīcaka himself approached Draupadī, and spoke in a low, coaxing voice.”
Kīcaka said:
“Who art thou, lady of swan-like speech,
Whose eyes like lotus-petals reach?
Thy beauty burns like a fire,
Thy glance has kindled my desire.
Lakṣmī or Bhūti, Hri or Śrī—
Which of the goddesses art thou to ?
Thy breasts like lotus-buds infla,
Thy waist, thy hips, thy moonlike fra.
Quench this fire that eats my soul,
Be rain to , my senses’ goal.
All wives I have I cast away,
On thee alone my heart will stay.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Draupadī, ever self-possessed, spoke firmly though with humility, warning him of the doom he courted.”
Draupadī said:
“I am but a servant, low, unknown,
A hair-dresser, no queen on throne.
Another’s wife am I, O lord,
Turn back thy heart from this accord.
Take joy, O chief, in wedded spouse,
Tread not in sin another’s house.
Desire so blind brings sha and fall,
Calamity overtakes it all.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“But Kīcaka, maddened by lust, forgot dharma and death alike.”
Kīcaka said:
“I am the power behind this throne,
This kingdom’s pulse, its life, its bone.
None rivals in youth or might,
In wealth, in form, in sheer delight.
Why serve when thou couldst reign with ,
Mistress of all prosperity?
Accept , lady of fair face,
And share this kingdom’s throne and grace.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Then Draupadī, her eyes dark as storm clouds, replied again, warning him of the Gandharvas who guarded her.”
Draupadī said:
“O foolish one, cast off this way,
Thy life thou’lt lose this very day.
Five husbands guard , Gandharva-born,
Their wrath is fire, their touch is thorn.
Skyward or earthward thou mayst flee,
Or cross the wide and foaming sea,
Yet from their hands no flight, no place,
Will save thee from their vengeful chase.
Thou art a child who seeks the moon,
A sick man yearning for his doom.
Turn back, O Kīcaka, from this sin,
Or perish, torn thy soul within.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Thus rebuked, Kīcaka still burned with desire. Like a moth circling a fla, he hovered about Draupadī, blind to the doom that awaited him.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Thus rejected by Draupadī, Kīcaka, burning with lust, turned again to Sudeshnā, his sister, and spoke in desperation.”
Kīcaka said:
“O queen, contrive by any art,
That Sairindhrī may grant my heart.
Without her arms I waste, I die,
O sister, hear my fevered cry!”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Hearing his lant, Sudeshnā, gentle yet weak before her brother’s will, pondered. Considering both Kīcaka’s resolve and Draupadī’s distress, she answered him softly.”
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Sudeshnā said:
“Prepare a feast with ats and wine,
Of choicest fare and draughts divine.
Then will I send my maid to thee,
On pretext of my thirst to be.
Alone within thy chamber’s wall,
So strive to bend her heart withal.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Delighted, Kīcaka at once prepared wines fit for kings, and viands of every taste and at of every kind. When all was ready, Sudeshnā summoned Draupadī, handing her a golden vessel, and said—”
Sudeshnā said:
“Go, Sairindhrī, to Kīcaka’s hall,
Bring wine for , delay not all.
My thirst afflicts —heed my word,
Be swift, obedient to thy lord.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“But Draupadī, trembling, with tears in her eyes, spoke in sorrow.”
Draupadī said:
“O gentle queen, how can I go?
Thou knowest well his shaless woe.
In thy own halls I cannot stay,
Faithless to husbands, led astray.
Did I not tell thee from the start,
His glance would wound, his hand would smart?
Send any other maid of thine—
Not , O princess, not this ti.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Yet Sudeshnā, swayed by her brother’s might, pressed her still.”
Sudeshnā said:
“Go thou, for I have sent thee there;
Sent from my side, he will not dare.
Fear not, O maid of curling hair,
Take now this vessel bright and fair.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Thus compelled, Draupadī, weeping and fearful, prayed within her heart.”
Draupadī prayed:
“I know no man but husbands five,
By that pure Truth may I survive.
O gods, protect from this wrong,
Defend , make my spirit strong!”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“And she bowed in silent adoration to Sūrya, the radiant lord. The Sun, compassionate, commanded a mighty Rākṣasa to guard her unseen. From that ti, the spirit of the Rākṣasa followed her, keeping her safe from violation.
So Draupadī, like a doe trembling before a lion, entered Kīcaka’s hall with the golden vessel in hand. And the Sūta, beholding her approach, felt as one stranded on the shoreless sea who suddenly sees a boat within reach.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Insulted by Kīcaka, the illustrious princess of dark hue and slender waist went to her quarters, trembling with rage and grief. She bathed herself, washed her garnts, and sat weeping, pondering the ans of revenge.
‘What am I to do? Where shall I go? How can my purpose be effected?’ she thought. Then she rembered Bhīma. ‘There is none else but Bhīma who can accomplish today the purpose of my heart!’
Afflicted with sorrow, yet possessed of courage, Draupadī rose at night. Leaving her bed, she moved swiftly and silently through the darkened palace toward Bhīmasena’s quarters.”
Like a frightened doe she sought the lair,
Of a lion asleep with mighty air.
Like a vine to a sala tree she clung,
Her arms around his shoulders hung.
Like a she-elephant seeking her mate,
She roused the hero to his fate.
Her voice like a lute on Gandhāra string,
Awoke the slumbering son of the wind.
Vaiśampāyana said:
“She embraced Bhīma as a creeper embraces a mighty tree on the banks of the Gomati. She roused him as a lioness rouses a sleeping lion in a trackless forest. Her words were sweet, but her heart was afla.”
Draupadī said:
“Arise, arise, O Bhīmasena!
Why lie as one dead, O mighty lion?
Shall a wretch who disgraced thy wife yet live?
Surely he who lives does not suffer such wrong!
Kīcaka has shad this day in the hall,
With foul desire he sought to enthrall.
If thou art mine, O lord of might,
Rise and avenge this very night!”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Awakened, Bhīma sat up upon his couch overlaid with rich cloth. His eyes glowed like coals, but his voice was steady as he addressed her.”
Bhīma said:
“Krishna, why cost thou here so pale,
Thy colour gone, thy body frail?
Speak all—be it bitter, painful, or sweet,
I alone am thy refuge, thy shield, thy feat.
Tell thy wish, thy purpose and plan,
And return to thy bed ere the palace wakes,
For again and again from peril I save thee—
Speak now, O beloved, and vengeance takes.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Thus did Bhīma, mighty-ard son of Vāyu, speak to his beloved Panchālī. And thus, at the midnight hour, in whispered words, Draupadī poured out her grief and her terrible plea for Kīcaka’s destruction.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Then Draupadī, with eyes swollen from weeping, addressed Bhīma. Her words, heavy with sorrow, were like arrows tipped with fire, striking the very heart of her mighty husband.”
“What grief is left unknown to her
Who has Yudhiṣṭhira for her lord?
Why ask , Bhīma, of my pain,
When all my wounds thou knowest plain?
Dragged to the court, called slave by na,
By the Pratikāmin, amid n of fa—
That fire yet smoulders in my breast,
No queen but I could bear that test.
The Saindhava shad in the wood,
A second blow no woman should.
And now—Kīcaka’s vile, unholy deed,
He kicked down—who else could bleed?
What worth hath life, O son of Vāyu,
When thou dost ask as though untrue?
Though crushed by grief, I stand alone,
While thou dost slumber, pity none.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Her voice grew sharper, turning from grief to bitter reproach. She spoke of Yudhiṣṭhira, her heart scorched with anger at his weakness.”
“Censure that elder, slave of dice,
Who sold his wife for fortune’s price.
Kingdom, brothers, wealth, and fa—
He cast them all in ruinous ga.
Had he but played for years unending,
His hoards of gold and gifts unbending,
His steeds, his mules, his endless store,
Would never fail, though staked once more.
But blinded by the gambler’s lust,
He cast away his people’s trust.
Now see him, mute, consud with sha,
Reflecting ever on his bla.
Once kings by thousands graced his hall,
A hundred thousand maidens tall,
With trays in hand, their service sweet,
Fed guests by day and night complete.
A thousand nishkas every dawn,
He gave, though riches still were drawn.
Now lo!—that mighty lord of n,
Casts dice in Virata’s den.
Bards with voices gemd and clear,
Sang his praises twice each year.
Sages gathered, Snātakas fed—
By Yudhiṣṭhira’s bounty bred.
Alas! That lord, once sunlike bright,
Dwells now in another’s sight.
Once earth’s kings bowed at his feet,
Now he begs for scraps to eat.
O Bhīma, he who shone like fla,
Lives now in servitude and sha.
Once a sovereign without peer,
He whispers flattery in another’s ear.
Who then, O Bhārata, can say,
That Draupadī knows not grief today?”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Thus did Krishna, daughter of Drupada, pour out her grief, mingled with reproach. Her words fell like fuel into the fire of Bhīma’s wrath, soon to blaze forth with terrible promise.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Then the dark-eyed daughter of Drupada, her heart pierced by a hundred sorrows, spoke again to Bhīmasena. Her words, rising like sobs, were laden with reproach, pity, and despair.”
“O Bhārata, another grief I bear,
Listen, though it breaks my heart to share.
Thou—lion of n, in strength divine—
Art shad, and called a cook of swine!
Vallava—so the people say,
The mighty Bhīma works for pay.
When kitchen toil is done, thou still
Dost sit by Virāṭa, ek and still.
When elephants thou fightest for their sport,
And won laugh within the court,
My soul is pierced with cruel fla,
For such a fate is not thy na.
When lions, tigers, buffaloes fight,
And Kaikeyī’s won watch the sight,
I faint, though none my body harm,
For grief o’erpowers my very form.
Then the queen mocks—‘Sairindhrī weeps,
For Vallava, the cook she keeps.
They entered here the selfsa day,
Lovers disguised in a hidden way!’
Such taunts, O Bhīma, scorch my breast,
With sha, with fury unconfessed.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Then, turning from Bhīma, her sorrow widened to the other sons of Pāṇḍu, each disguise a wound upon her heart.”
“And what of Arjuna, peerless, bold?
Whose arms once scarred by bowstring old,
Now hide with bangles, conch-brace set—
My tears fall thick when him I t.
He who with Agni burnt the wood,
Now sings for maidens’ idle mood.
That thunderbolt of Kuru’s race,
Now paints his eyes, and curls his face!
He who could shake the earth with tread,
Whose car-wheels roared, whose arrows sped—
Now dances lightly, girdled fair,
Among the won braiding hair.
O Bhīma! When my heart recalls,
Arjuna in Virāṭa’s halls,
I lose all path, I lose all breath,
It seems my soul is struck with death.”
“And Sahadeva—gentle, mild,
Beloved by Kuntī, her sweetest child.
A prince, a hero, wise and strong,
Now tends the cattle all day long.
He sleeps at night on calf-skins spread,
A cowherd where once kings he led.
My mother wept and bade tend
Him, tender, bashful, till the end.
Now red-dyed robes and kine his care,
While grief consus unaware.
O Bhīma, what sin did he make,
To bear such bonds for virtue’s sake?”
“And Nakula—the lotus-eyed,
Whose beauty made all hosts subside,
Now curbs the steeds for Virāṭa’s pride,
Trains horses fleet, yet shas his side.
He, whom in battle kings obeyed,
Now shows the stables well arrayed.
O mighty one, to see him so,
My fever burns, my tears o’erflow.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Thus Draupadī, wrung with grief, poured forth her lantation. Her words, each a fla, sought to rouse Bhīma’s heart to wrath. She stood trembling, her dark locks falling loose, her eyes blazing like twin lamps, as though awaiting from him a vow of vengeance.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Then Kṛṣṇā, daughter of Drupada, still weeping in the moonlight of the kitchen hall, spoke to Bhīmasena once more. Her words were like arrows; each one struck his heart, stirring the storm within.”
“Alas, O Bhārata, through the throw of the dice
By that desperate gambler, I pay this price.
Under Sudheṣṇā’s command I dwell,
A Sairindhrī in another’s shell.
A princess once, now pounding sand,
Waiting for ti to turn its hand.
Success and defeat are a moving wheel—
I live on hope, though my wounds are real.
Even givers must beg; even slayers are slain;
Destiny’s tide none can restrain.
Like a dried-up tank refilled by rain,
I wait for our fortune to rise again.
Surrounded by brothers and kin I should smile,
Yet misery dogs mile by mile.
Surely so sin of a forr day
Has brought this night of sha my way.”
She lifted her hands—once soft as lotus petals—showing Bhīma the corns from grinding sandal for Sudheṣṇā.
“See these hands that queens once kissed,
Now rough with labour none can list.
She who walked with maids in train
Walks behind, a servant, in pain.
She who ruled the Earth to the sea,
Lives in fear of Sudheṣṇā’s decree.
She who never feared Kuntī or thee
Quails before Matsya’s king for a fee.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Having poured out her heart thus, Kṛṣṇā cast her tear-filled eyes upon Bhīma. With voice choked in sobs, sighing again and again, she said—”
“Signal, O Bhīma, must my offence have been,
To the gods unseen or so sin within.
For though my life is a sea of pain,
Still I breathe where I should be slain.”
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