novelraw Arc 10 - Part 2 - Arjuna Vanvasa - Chapter 2 - Arjuna's Journey
Arc 10 - Part 2 - Arjuna Vanvasa - Chapter 2 - Arjuna's Journey
Vaiśampāyana said:
Hearing Arjuna’s solemn vow and his struggle to uphold dharma, Ulūpī, daughter of the serpents, spoke again—not with shame, but with wisdom and clarity, as one who knew both the heart and the law.
“O son of Pāṇḍu, I know thy vow,
I know the reason for thy journey now.
For Draupadī’s sake thou roamest wide,
A Brahmachārin, with honor as guide.
But hear me, hero with steadfast mind—
The exile you keep is of a specific kind.
It is not to shun all joy or bride,
But to honor a pact the brothers tied.
This vow was born of accident,
Of love and law, not punishment.
And thou, in yielding to my plea,
Dost not stain thy purity.”
Then, her voice grew more tender, but no less firm, as she appealed not just to duty—but to mercy.
“It is a sacred act, O lord,
To lift the weak with gentle word.
If by thy touch I live again,
Shall virtue bleed, or dharma wane?
I am thine, O Kuru’s pride,
A flame no water can now hide.
Should I perish in my pain,
Thou shalt bear a deeper stain.”
She fell at his feet, tears shimmering like dew upon serpent scales.
“The wise declare: a woman’s plea
Shall not go unanswered, if righteously.
If thou reject me, I am lost—
Let my life not bear that cost.
O Partha, protector of those in need,
O tiger of men, perform this deed.
Let this act be thy sheltering grace—
And my sorrow shall leave no trace.”
So spoke Ulūpī—not out of lust, but love; not to tempt him, but to complete a fate that called from beneath the sacred river.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Hearing her words, Arjuna—son of Dharma and Kuntī—looked within. He saw no blemish in her plea, no sin in compassion. And so, with virtue still his guiding flame, he united with her that night in the palace of the Nāgas, fulfilling both her longing and the deeper rhythm of fate.
Beneath the waves where mantras fade,
Where serpents dream and vows are weighed,
Arjuna yielded, yet stood tall—
For dharma held him through it all.
When morning broke, and the sun’s golden wheel rose from the eastern sky, Arjuna prepared to return. Ulūpī, radiant with joy and gratitude, accompanied him to the banks where Gaṅgā enters the plains.
There, before taking her leave, the Nāga maiden offered him a boon—her final act of love:
“May all creatures born of wave and scale,
Before thy might and gaze grow pale.
In every battle fought in flood,
Thy strength shall conquer, as fire through mud.”
And thus she vanished, returning to her realm below, while Arjuna, now blessed with power over all amphibious foes, resumed his journey through the sacred forests of Bhārata.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Arjuna, that son of Kuntī born of the wielder of the thunderbolt, narrated all that had transpired with Ulūpī to the Brahmanas who still journeyed beside him. Having fulfilled both his vow and a celestial bond, he turned once more toward the path of pilgrimage, his heart anchored in tapas and truth.
Desiring to scale the sacred shoulders of Himavat, he set his steps toward the mountains where sages dwelt and gods had once descended.
He came first to Agastyavata, where the wind bore the scent of fire offerings and the stones still whispered the name of the southern ṛṣi. From there, he ascended Vasiṣṭha’s peak, crowned by silence and sacrifice, then reached the summit known as Bṛgu’s height, where he bathed in the clear mountain waters and offered oblations in fire.
Cows by the thousand he gave away,
With gold and cloth and homes for stay.
Where Brahmanas gathered, he left behind
The gifts of a warrior’s reverent mind.
From that snow-kissed realm he traveled on to Hiraṇyavindu, the golden hill of sages, where celestial seers were once said to shine like stars. There too he bathed, worshipped, and gave.
Descending from the heights, Arjuna turned eastward, longing to behold the sacred lands that stretched beyond the forests of Kuru. Accompanied by his Vedic followers, he journeyed toward the light rising from the sea.
He passed through the ancient Naimiṣa forest, where the river Utpalinī, filled with blue lotuses, shone like a garland laid upon the earth. He bathed in the holy Nanda and Apara-Nanda, offered respects to the famed Kauśikī, and purified himself in the sacred Gaṅgā and Gayā rivers, where the ancestors themselves are invoked.
In every stream, he left behind
A portion of his warlike mind.
And in each flame, he fed the fire
That lifts the soul and burns desire.
To the lands of Vaṅga and Kaliṅga, rich in waters and ancient rites, he made his way—visiting every tīrtha, every yājñika grove. At each site, he performed the proper ceremonies, gave liberally to Brahmanas, and walked on, leaving blessings in his wake.
At last, as his eastern pilgrimage neared its ocean-bound limit, the Brahmanas who had walked beside him from the Himavat themselves bowed and turned back at the frontier of Kaliṅga. Arjuna, with folded palms, took leave of them and continued with only a handful of trusted attendants.
He crossed the wide lands of the Kaliṅgas, journeying at his own pace, his mind clear like the rivers he had worshipped. He beheld many cities—splendid in wealth and architecture—and many serene hermitages hidden in the woods. Finally, he stood before the Mahendra mountain, resplendent and wild, its slopes home to ascetics clad in bark and light.
There, the air was touched with prayer,
And silence bloomed like blossoms rare.
Between the ocean and the sky,
Arjuna let his burdens fly.
Then he entered Maṇipura, kingdom by the sea, a land where the breeze sang sweet, and every flower seemed shaped by the hand of dharma. There, in that virtuous province, he approached the palace of Citravāhana, the just and noble king of Maṇipura.
That king had a daughter, famed for her beauty and strength—Citrāṅgadā, the jewel of his lineage.
Like the dawn in a warrior’s dream,
She walked with grace in martial gleam.
Not only fair but fearless too,
With eyes that saw both blade and dew.
And thus did Arjuna, wanderer and prince, come to the gates of another fate, where beauty met dharma, and the bow would bend once more—not for battle, but for alliance.
Vaiśampāyana said:
As fate would have it, one day while wandering through the palace grounds of Citravāhana, Arjuna beheld her—Citrāṅgadā, princess of Maṇipura—moving freely in her father’s courtyard, clad not in silks alone but in strength and grace. She roamed as one untethered, trained in arms, proud in bearing, and radiant with the charm of one both noble and self-possessed.
Her gait was that of a lioness,
Her glance both sharp and merciless.
A bow upon her shoulder lay—
A daughter, yet raised to lead one day.
At the sight of her, desire stirred in Arjuna—not lustful or fleeting, but deep, noble, touched by fate. He resolved then to seek her hand in the dharmic way. Approaching her father with reverence, he addressed King Citravāhana with clarity and courage:
“O King, thou lord of Maṇipura,
I seek thy daughter—bright as Tara.
Born of Kṣatriya blood am I,
A warrior true beneath the sky.”
The king, wise and composed, replied with gentle curiosity, “Who art thou, O noble one, that asketh thus for the jewel of my house?”
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With folded hands, Arjuna answered:
“I am Dhanañjaya, son of Pāṇḍu,
Born of Kuntī, and brother true
To mighty Bhīma and Yudhiṣṭhira—
One of the five from Hastināpura.”
Hearing these words, the king smiled with delight, but he spoke with care, mindful of his vow and the sacred thread of his lineage.
“O son of Pāṇḍu, hear my tale,
For lineage here is not so pale.
One Prabhāñjana, of ancient grace,
Was childless, fearing end of race.
To Lord Śiva he bowed with flame,
And from the god a boon he claimed:
‘Let each in my line bear but one heir—
So shall my seed grow strong and rare.’
And so it has been, down each line—
One child alone, by will divine.
I have no son, but I have made
My daughter heir in warrior's trade.
She is my Putrikā in name—
A daughter, but of rightful claim.
The son she bears shall bear my name,
And so continue royal flame.
If this, O Arjuna, is thy will,
Take her as thine, her vow fulfill.”
Arjuna listened, his heart aligned with dharma and honor. He bowed with joy and reverence, and replied:
“So be it, noble king and sage,
Thy word is law, thy bond my wage.
I take thy daughter, fierce and fair,
And with her vow I too shall share.”
Thus, Arjuna wedded Citrāṅgadā under the vow of putrikā dharma, a bond sacred and rare. For three years he remained in Maṇipura, content in love and duty, as the seasons turned and the forest sang his silence.
In time she bore him a noble son,
A light to carry lineage on.
Arjuna held her close and dear—
A moment of peace, unmarred by fear.
Then, having fulfilled both dharma and desire, and leaving behind a worthy heir to the line of Prabhāñjana, Arjuna embraced his wife, bid farewell to Citravāhana with honor, and set forth once more on his wandering path.
With bow in hand and vows renewed,
He walked where fate and virtue brewed.
For though his heart knew love and fire,
His path was still that of the higher.
Vaiśampāyana said:
After departing from Maṇipura, the great Dhanañjaya—the hero whose arms bore the weight of celestial weapons—journeyed southward along the edge of the salt-brined sea. There, where the waves whispered Vedic hymns and the wind bore the scent of forest fire and lotus bloom, he came upon a region sanctified by the footsteps of ṛṣis and sages.
The southern ocean kissed the land,
Where saints and seers in silence stand.
Fire burned in altars old,
And mantras floated, calm and bold.
Amidst this blessed earth, Arjuna beheld five sacred tīrthas—each bearing a name radiant with ancient power: Agastya, Saubhadra, Pauloma, Karandhama, and Bhāradvāja. These waters, so holy they were said to yield the merit of an aśvamedha yajña to those who bathed in them, lay strangely deserted.
The pools lay still, yet none drew near—
No sage, no bather, far or near.
Though named for seers, and blessed by fire,
They stood untouched, despite their spire.
Puzzled by the hush and absence of ritual, Arjuna turned to the nearby ascetics—those clad in bark, eyes alight with tapas, seated beneath trees of silence. With palms joined in reverence, he asked them:
“O Brāhmaṇas, utterers of Brahman,
Why do your feet not touch this span?
These are sacred waters, famed of yore—
Why do you shun this river shore?”
The ascetics, serene yet wary, responded to the son of Pāṇḍu with grave voices:
“O Arjuna, mighty and wise,
Though these waters gleam like paradise,
Within each pool a peril hides—
Five crocodiles in sacred tides.
Not beasts of flesh, but cursed by fate,
They seize whomever dares that gate.
Sages have died, drawn down in pain—
And so we stay, and so refrain.”
Thus did Arjuna learn that these tīrthas, once vibrant with yajña and offering, had become silent sanctuaries of fear—haunted not by evil, but by dharma turned astray through ancient curses yet unresolved.
Sacred the waters, yet shunned in dread—
Where saints once chanted, now fear had spread.
And there stood Arjuna, Kuru’s pride,
With vows unbroken and bow at side.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Hearing the ascetics' warning, Arjuna, lion-hearted son of Kuntī, was unmoved. The fear that silenced sages could not still the fire in his soul. Though urged to turn away, he resolved to confront the mystery that haunted the sacred waters.
For where others fled, he chose to go,
Into the current's silent flow.
Fearless in heart and pure in aim,
He entered the pool that bore dread’s name.
He came to Saubhadra, the tīrtha consecrated to a great ṛṣi. Without hesitation, that scorcher of foes plunged into its still surface. But no sooner had his body entered the water than fate stirred below.
From the depths, a massive crocodile surged forth and clamped its jaws upon his leg. Yet Arjuna, strong-armed and unshaken, did not cry out or flail. He seized the creature with mighty hands, and in a feat of heroic power, dragged the beast to the shore.
And then—a wonder beyond reason occurred.
The beast became a maiden fair,
With anklets gold and braided hair.
Her limbs adorned, her eyes alight,
A being born of heaven’s height.
Arjuna beheld her, astonished. No more a crocodile, but a celestial damsel, radiant with divine beauty and gentle pride.
Smiling, Dhananjaya of Kuru’s line addressed her:
“Who art thou, O radiant one,
Whose curse the tides have just undone?
Why didst thou roam in such a guise,
A predator in sacred ties?”
The maiden bowed, her ornaments chiming softly. Her voice, clear as lotus-water, answered with humility:
“O son of Pāṇḍu, O mighty arm,
I was once of Kuvera’s charm.
Vargā am I, Apsarā born,
Who played amidst the woods of dawn.
With four companions—Saurabheyi,
Samīcī, Lāṭā, and Vudvudā—we
Were journeying to Kuvera’s seat,
Through groves divine and scented sweet.
Along the way we chanced to find
A Brahmana of steadfast mind.
His splendor lit the forest dim—
All nature bowed in awe to him.”
Her eyes grew distant as she recalled the moment that turned sport into fate.
“He sat alone, in Vedic flame,
His soul ablaze, his breath the same.
His vows were deep, his penance pure—
Our laughter could not make him stir.
Yet we, in folly, sought to tease—
With song and smile and dancer’s ease.
But he, enraged by our deceit,
Cursed us with power none could meet.
‘A hundred years,’ he sternly cried,
‘As beasts in sacred pools abide!
In water dwell, in scaled disgrace,
Until a warrior grants you grace.’”
Thus was their joy turned to exile, their beauty made a prison. Vargā, the first among them, had now been freed.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Vargā, adorned in divine beauty but shadowed by her past, bowed her head and continued her tale before Arjuna, son of Pāṇḍu.
“O mighty one, when the curse fell upon us,
It was as if the sky had shattered.
The forest that had once sung with joy
Became a prison of silence and sorrow.
Stricken with fear and remorse, we approached the ascetic again—he who glowed like Agni in the heart of the woods, unwavering in his vow, radiant in his penance. Falling at his feet, we wept and pleaded with voices trembling like wind in dry reeds.
‘O Brāhmaṇa, we were blinded by pride,
By youth and beauty we did abide.
Kāmadeva clouded our sight,
And folly made us mock thy light.
We knew not what we dared to face,
And now we fall in our disgrace.
But it is said, O sage divine,
The good forgive, the wise refine.
To slay a woman, even by word,
Is dharma’s breach, as we have heard.
And Brahmanas are mercy’s flame—
Let not thy vow become our shame.
We seek thy shelter, trembling, bare—
In thee alone lies hope, repair.
Forgive our trespass, lift our curse—
Let virtue not grow black, but nurse.’”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Hearing these words, the Brāhmaṇa of vast tapas, his aura blazing like the midday sun, grew softened in heart. Though his gaze still burned with the fire of truth, compassion now flowed through his words like the Gaṅgā through sacred stone.
“The curse I spoke,” he said, “was true—
For falsehood is a stain I rue.
Yet mercy too resides in me—
I grant your plea, but partially.
For a hundred years—not more, not less—
You shall dwell in watery distress.
As crocodiles, you’ll pull from shore
The wanderers who seek to explore.
But when the destined hero comes,
With mighty arms and battle-drums,
He shall drag you to the land—
And break the weight of my command.”
He raised his hand, sealing fate with clarity.
“Know this—my words are iron-wrought,
In jest or wrath, I twist them not.
When freed by him whose fate aligns,
Ye shall resume your forms divine.
And know, ye maidens of the wave,
The tīrthas where you’re bound as grave—
Shall shine again when you are free,
And known as Nāri-tīrthas shall they be.
Sacred to all who seek release,
Where women once wept, shall rise peace.
Cleansing sin, these waters pure
Shall live while dharma shall endure.”
Thus spoke the sage whose word bore the weight of the Vedas. His curse became a prophecy; his wrath, the seed of redemption.
And Vargā, now released by Arjuna’s touch, looked upon him with reverence and said:
“O son of Dharma, we are free—
Because of thee, because of thee.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Having spoken of her curse and liberation, the Apsarā Vargā turned once more to Arjuna, her savior, and bowed with reverent gratitude. Then, with gentle voice and shining eyes, she concluded her tale:
“O tiger among men, when the sage pronounced our fate,
We left his grove with hearts weighed by time’s gate.
‘Where shall we meet the one ordained?’ we cried,
‘Who’ll break our bonds and turn the tide?’
And as we walked—sorrow clinging like mist to the lotus—a vision radiant as dawn appeared before us.
We beheld Nārada, the celestial sage, resplendent and serene, his vīṇā in hand, his limbs aglow with tapas and music.
He came like thought, without a sound,
As if the sky had touched the ground.
His glance was fire, his smile the moon,
His words—a song, a sacred boon.
We bowed before him with trembling limbs and downcast faces. Seeing our sorrow, he asked gently of its cause. We told him everything—the curse, our remorse, the prophecy unfulfilled.
Then Nārada, knower of three times, said unto us:
“In the southern lowlands, where the ocean breathes,
Lie five tīrthas girdled with trees.
There shall come the son of Pāṇḍu, great Dhanañjaya,
With arms like thunder and heart pure as yajña.
It is he who shall draw you from depth to shore,
Restoring the forms you bore before.”
And so, O hero, by the sage’s counsel, we came here and waited in patient sorrow. And today, by thy hand, I am freed.
But four of my companions—Saurabheyi, Samīcī, Lāṭā, and Vudvudā—still remain, dwelling cursed within the other sacred waters. O sinless one, do what is right. Let thy mercy complete what fate has begun."
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Hearing her words, Arjuna’s face shone with joy. Without hesitation, he rose and entered each of the four remaining pools, one after another. With the same fearless might and unwavering dharma, he dragged forth the crocodiles from their depths—and each, touched by the destined hand, became again a radiant Apsarā.
The waters stirred, the curses broke,
The bonds dissolved like morning smoke.
And from the depths where sorrow lay,
Rose light and laughter, bright as day.
Once freed, the five maidens stood together once more, divine in form and clothed in celestial grace. They bowed before Arjuna with tears of joy and voices filled with gratitude. Then, with his permission, they vanished—rising toward the heavens from which they’d fallen, free again to dance in the courts of Kubera.
And thus the tīrthas, once feared and shunned,
Were freed of curse, their power spun.
From that day forth, their names did shine—
Nāri-tīrthas, cleansers of sin and sign.
Arjuna, having fulfilled their redemption, turned his thoughts back to one who still dwelled in his heart.
Desiring once more to behold Citrāṅgadā, he journeyed again to Maṇipura. There, seated upon the royal throne, he found his son—Vabhruvāhana, youthful and wise, bearing the mark of both warrior and king.
The child he’d sired, now grown and crowned,
With dharma’s scepter and virtue bound.
And by his side, the queenly grace—
Citrāṅgadā, with radiant face.
Arjuna embraced them both with love, and beheld the fruit of union and dharma fulfilled. Then, his heart at peace, he turned once more to the path of pilgrimage.
Thus did the son of Pāṇḍu set forth toward the hallowed region of Gokarṇa, where new trials and revelations yet awaited.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Arjuna, the mighty Vibhatsu, peerless in arms and steadfast in heart, turned his chariot westward. Wandering from sacred grove to tīrtha, he reached the shores of the western ocean. There, one by one, he beheld the holy waters that dotted the vast seacoast like jewels set in a celestial girdle.
At last he came to the sacred land of Prabhāsa, luminous and sanctified by countless yajñas, where sages once sang the Vedas and deities descended in former yugas. And when Mādhava, the slayer of Madhu, heard that Arjuna had arrived there, his heart stirred with joy.
Like rivers flowing to the sea,
So moved Kṛṣṇa toward his friend in glee.
And when they met, those souls divine—
Nara and Nārāyaṇa—did brightly shine.
They embraced as brothers in spirit, not merely of earth but of ṛta and timeless dharma. Sitting together beneath the open sky, Kṛṣṇa asked:
“O son of Kuntī, O wanderer of worlds,
Why dost thou tread these sacred pearls?
What path has drawn thee, far and wide,
From forest glade to ocean’s tide?”
Then Arjuna recounted his vow and travels—Ulūpī and Citrāṅgadā, the Nāri-tīrthas and their release, the sages and mountains, rivers and lakes he had bathed in and worshipped. And Kṛṣṇa, smiling with divine content, simply said:
“So it is ordained, and so it is right.
Your journey burns dark karma bright.”
They remained for some time at Prabhāsa, delighting in the holy atmosphere. Then, desiring to enjoy peaceful repose, they departed together to Raivataka, the mountain of beauty and leisure. And before their arrival, by Kṛṣṇa’s command, the peak had been adorned by skilled artisans—its slopes now crowned with blooming gardens, flowing fountains, and halls of mirth.
Food had been gathered in splendid heaps,
And dancers brought for joy that keeps.
Musicians played with flawless art—
For joy, not war, now filled each heart.
There Arjuna sat with Kṛṣṇa to witness the performances of dancers and singers, as the sound of mṛdaṅgas and vīṇās filled the mountain air. When all had been dismissed with due honor, Arjuna lay upon a celestial bed, soft as cloud, perfumed with sandal and saffron.
As he rested, he described to Kṛṣṇa the wonders he had seen—each tīrtha, each mount, each sacred stream where his soul had been bathed anew.
But as he spoke, soft sleep did creep,
Like Gaṅgā through the roots of deep.
With dreams of dharma in his breast,
The son of Kuntī sank to rest.
At dawn, sweet music awakened him—vīṇās strumming in morning cadence, bards chanting benedictions, and gentle hands pressing sandalwood to his brow. Once his rituals and ablutions were complete, Kṛṣṇa greeted him again with affection and honor.
Then Arjuna mounted a chariot wrought of gold, shining like the sun’s own fire, and set out for Dvārakā, the ocean-girded city of the Yādavas. And upon Kṛṣṇa’s word, the city had been adorned like the heavens themselves.
Banners fluttered from house and dome,
Flowers rained in every home.
The streets were swept, the arches dressed—
For one whom dharma's gods had blessed.
The people of Dvārakā, eager to behold the son of Pāṇḍu, filled the roads by the thousands. The Bhojas, the Vṛṣṇis, the Andhakas, and hosts of Yādava clans surged forward in joyous throngs. Women and men stood side by side, praising the hero whose fame filled Bhārata.
“He walks like wind, he stands like fire,
He bends the bow, yet holds desire.
O Arjuna, welcome home—
To this city, your second throne!”
And Arjuna, honoring custom and virtue, worshipped those who were worthy, embraced his equals, and blessed the young.
At last, he entered the mansion of Kṛṣṇa—a palace decked with gems and pleasures, filled with echoes of laughter and wisdom. There he dwelled for many days, in the company of his dearest friend, united again in joy, rest, and the quiet radiance of dharma fulfilled.