Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 12 - Khandava-Dahan - Chapter 5 - The Celestial Boons

Vaiśampāyana said:

O descendant of Kuru, though the ṛṣi Maṇḍapāla had entrusted his sons to the fire-god and praised them with Vedic hymns, his heart could find no rest. The wind stirred the trees and the scent of burning wood thickened the air. Thoughts of flame and helpless wings tormented his mind.

“Alas,” he cried, “my children lie

Beneath a wrathful, blazing sky.

They cannot fly, nor flee, nor speak—

Their shells are soft, their bodies weak.

And she, their mother, tender, lone,

What strength hath she to save her own?

Her cries may rise, her tears may pour—

But fire heeds not a mother’s roar.

O Jaritari, brave and mild—

My firstborn son, my Vedic child.

And Sarisṛṅga, noble in mind,

Stamvamitra, firm and kind.

And Droṇa, wise beyond his age—

How fare they now in Agni’s rage?

And how their mother, left to fight

Without her mate, against the night?”

So lamented Maṇḍapāla, a father torn between devotion and distance, while by his side stood his second wife, Lapitā, stung by the shadow of another’s name.

Moved by jealousy and sharp of tongue, Lapitā answered:

“Why grieve, O sage, for fledglings born,

Who carry in them wisdom’s corn?

Thou saidst before that they were Rishis—

Born of flame and full of wishes.

Didst thou not speak to Agni’s face,

And ask for them his guarding grace?

That god whose tongue drinks Vedic breath—

Will he forget his vow in death?

Nay, sage—not for their sake you pine,

But for the woman once called thine.

Your heart, though here, has flown afar—

And I am left beneath your scar.

Go then! Return to she who bore

Your sons, and fills your heart once more.

As for me—I shall walk alone,

No more your mate, but dust and bone.”

She turned her back with wounded pride, her voice still trembling with restraint.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Hearing the bitter words of Lapitā, sage Maṇḍapāla sighed deeply and answered with restraint:

“O fair one, I wander not with passion’s aim,

Nor for fleeting joy nor fickle fame.

My heart was drawn by dharma’s thread—

The duty of offspring, not of bed.

That which one has, who casts away,

For what may come some future day—

Is spurned by men, by gods disdained,

A soul by greed and shame profaned.

I must go. My sons are in peril, my heart forebodes their loss. The fire rages like Yama’s breath, and I cannot remain still. As for thee, O Lapitā, do as thou must. I speak no ill. But I must follow the path of fatherhood and fate.”

So saying, the sage turned away from the comforts of a second love, and hurried with anxiety gnawing at his soul.

Meanwhile, the fire of Agni, having consumed the forest but spared the righteous, passed over the place where the Śārṅgakas had lain. And Jaritā, the devoted mother, soared down from the skies, frantic with love, to the place of her children.

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She found them all unharmed.

The shells were cracked, the breath was whole,

No limb was scorched, no severed soul.

And seeing her, their hearts did leap—

They wept aloud, though not in grief.

She too, eyes wet with relief, gathered them one by one in her wings and sobbed, each tear a release of the weight of fire and fear.

“O sons, O lives, my feathered flame—

Ye have survived both death and shame.

The fire bowed down before your truth—

And spared the Rishis housed in youth.”

Just then, Maṇḍapāla arrived—dust upon his wings, repentance in his voice.

But there was no joy.

His sons, once eager for his embrace, looked away. And Jaritā, though her eyes had once sought his return, now met him with the stillness of hurt endured.

He spoke, hesitantly, to each child. He turned to Jaritā. But no one replied—neither in love nor in anger.

Then, Maṇḍapāla, wounded by the quiet, said:

“Which of these is my eldest born?

Who next, and who by time is sworn

As third and fourth, in sacred line—

My blood, my breath, my voice, my sign?

Why speak ye not, though I stand near?

Am I not father? Am I not dear?

True—I left thee, O faithful one—

But peace eluded me where I had gone.”

His voice trembled between sorrow and shame, but still no answer came. The silence spoke of trust betrayed, of a fire no hymn could quell.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then, O King, Jaritā, the forest-dwelling mother, still hurt and proud in heart, turned to Maṇḍapāla, her voice edged with sorrow and truth.

“What now have you to do with these—

My sons whom fire and storm did seize?

Who is eldest, and who came next?

When you had left us, sore and vexed?

Go to Lapitā—young and fair,

For whom you cast aside my care.

Her sweet smiles drew you far from me—

What need have you for progeny?”

Thus pierced by the words of his forsaken mate, Maṇḍapāla sighed—half in shame, half in wisdom—and replied in a voice that sought not victory, but understanding.

“O woman, know that nothing pains

A soul like jealousy’s heavy chains.

Whether in this life or the next,

A co-wife leaves the heart perplexed.

Even Arundhatī, purest of flame,

Beloved of Vasiṣṭha, known to fame—

Once burned with envy’s subtle heat,

And faltered in her seat discreet.

Because she doubted her sinless lord,

Her light is dim, her path ignored.

Now sometimes seen and oft unseen—

A smokey star with flickering sheen.

I wronged thee not, as Vasiṣṭha shined—

Still thou, like her, grew harsh in mind.

Yet I returned—for thee, for these—

Not for desire, but for duties’ peace.

Trust not too easily a woman’s smile,

For passion's bloom may fade in guile.

Yet a mother, when her sons are born,

Cares more for them than husband's scorn.”

He stood, torn between justification and repentance—his speech straining to reclaim what had been cracked, if not shattered.

Vaiśampāyana continued:

And after these words, the sons of Maṇḍapāla—Jaritari, Śariśṛṅga, Stamvamitra, and Droṇa—stepped forward one by one.

They bowed with grace and spoke no blame,

For dharma does not cling to shame.

A father’s face, though late returned,

Was still a fire the heart discerned.

Maṇḍapāla, seeing their reverence, softened. His voice changed—no longer defensive, but kind and full of care. He spoke gently to each child, offering comfort, recognition, and assurance.

“My sons, my light, O wise and bold,

Forgive this wing that flew too cold.

From now, in fire or wind or sky,

I walk with you until I die.”

Thus the fire that threatened their end gave way to reunion—between a father and his sons.

Yet between Maṇḍapāla and Jaritā, the embers still smoldered.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then Maṇḍapāla, full of affection yet bearing the weight of absence, turned to his sons with gentle words:

“O my children, sages in the guise of birds,

I had gone not from neglect, nor from lack of care.

To Agni, the purifier, I had spoken for your sake—

And he, pleased by my hymn, gave me his word.

I trusted your mother’s dharma and your own inner fire.

Therefore, I delayed not from indifference, but from faith.

Resent me not, O my sons,

For you are ṛṣis, acquainted with Veda,

And even Agni, devourer of all, knows your names.”

The children, hearing their father’s humility, bowed their heads—not in submission, but in solemn peace.

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Thus reconciled, Maṇḍapāla took his wife Jaritā and their four radiant sons, and, leaving the charred remnants of Khaṇḍava behind, departed for another land, carrying with them not sorrow, but the silent flame of dharma fulfilled.

And so, O Janamejaya, the illustrious fire-god—his seven tongues gleaming, his hunger quenched with rivers of ghee, marrow, and sacrifice—grew in splendour. With the aid of Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna, Agni consumed the Khaṇḍava forest, fulfilling the will of destiny.

The trees fell like ancient doubts.

The beasts cried out like ancient sins.

But in the furnace, the world was cleansed—

And dharma stood, though forests thinned.

When his task was complete, and his flames had licked dry the bones of earth, Agni, now glowing with golden satisfaction, revealed himself to Arjuna, bearing neither smoke nor wrath, but gratitude.

And then, from the celestial firmament, surrounded by the roaring Maruts, the king of gods himself—Purandara, wielder of the thunderbolt—descended.

His crown glowed like a second sun,

His arms adorned with lightning run.

Upon a chariot drawn by steeds of cloud,

He came where mortals stood unbowed.

Turning to Kṛṣṇa and Pārtha, he spoke with joy:

“O heroes of earth, ye have done

What no deva could dream nor none.

The forest that stood like sin's own wall—

You have struck it down at destiny’s call.

Ask now a boon, each one of you—

A gift no mortal may pursue.

I, Indra, king of gods and storm,

Am pleased. Speak—let your wish take form.”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Then Pārtha, son of Pāṇḍu, seeing Indra, lord of the thunderbolt, standing before him in splendour, bowed with folded palms and spoke with reverence.

“O king of gods, slayer of Vṛtra,

Bestow upon me thy divine weapons—

The flames that burn and winds that tear,

The thunder-souled and sky-born snare.”

Hearing this, Śakra, his form glowing like ten suns, replied with a smile of foresight:

“O Arjuna, son of Dharma’s line,

When Mādhava, the all-wise, divine,

Is pleased with thee in soul and deed,

Then shall I grant the arms you need.

For now I see the time draws near—

Prepare through penance, bold and clear.

My weapons—fire, and wind, and storm—

Shall come to thee in perfect form.”

Then Kṛṣṇa, the unfailing one, spoke not of war, but of the bond between hearts. With folded hands and eyes radiant like lotus-petals, he asked:

“O Vasava, grant me this alone—

That my friendship with Arjuna

Shall never fade in time or tone,

But shine as bright as Indra’s throne.”

Indra, moved by the love between Nara and Nārāyaṇa, nodded:

“So shall it be, O Kṛṣṇa wise,

Eternal as the stars and skies.

No fate shall sever what dharma seals—

Yours is the bond the cosmos feels.”

Having spoken thus, the king of the gods, surrounded by the roaring Maruts, ascended to the heavens, vanishing in a whirlwind of light. Before leaving, he spoke to Agni, the devourer of ghee, who stood fulfilled in his task.

For fifteen days, the god of flame

Had fed on beasts and blood and name.

His hunger quenched, his colours gold,

He ceased to burn, his fury cold.

Gratified, Agni turned to the two heroes and said:

“O tigers among men, I am pleased.

My fire is fed, my craving ceased.

Because of you, I’ve been restored—

Take now my grace, by will outpoured.

By my command, where’er you roam,

You shall be safe in any home.

No realm shall bind, no foe shall harm—

Go where you will, with fearless arm.”

Thus blessed by the fire-god, Arjuna, Kṛṣṇa, and Maya, the Asura architect spared from the flames, wandered for a while, their steps light upon the earth once scorched.

At last, they came to the banks of a clear and gentle river, where peace reigned and the scent of ash was washed away by wind and water.

There by the waters, still and wide,

The slayers of fear and flame did bide.

From forest wrath to river's song,

Their path of fate would yet be long.