novelraw Arc 4 - Dyūta - Chapter 11 - The Exile Begins
Arc 4 - Dyūta - Chapter 11 - The Exile Begins
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, his face calm but heart burdened, raised his hands in a gesture of farewell. His voice was steady, resonating across the silent hall of kings, as the Pāṇḍava prince prepared to leave behind the court of the Kurus.
“I bid farewell to all the Bharatas—
To grandsire Bhīṣma, steadfast as the mountains,
To king Somadatta and the ancient Vāhlika,
To Droṇa, Kṛpa, and all the noble warriors gathered here.
I bow to Aśvatthāman, to Vidura of wise counsel,
To Dhṛtarāṣṭra, and his hundred sons,
To Sanjaya, to Yuyutsu, and every noble courtier—
I take your leave, and if fate is kind, shall see you once again.”
Overcome with shame, none in the assembly could offer reply. Yet deep within their hearts, the elders and kings prayed silently for the welfare of that righteous prince. Then Vidura, the far-seeing and wise, rose from his seat and addressed the sons of Pāṇḍu with tender firmness.
He said, “O sons of Dharma, let Kuntī, the noble daughter of the Yādava house, not go with you into the forest. She is delicate, aged, and accustomed to royal comfort. Let her remain in my house. She shall be honored there as a queen and mother.”
The Pāṇḍavas, lowering their heads respectfully, replied, “So be it. Thou art to us like our father, O Vidura. Thy word is law. What thou ordainest, we shall follow. Command us further, if there is aught else to be done.”
Then Vidura, seer of truth, offered counsel like nectar drawn from the Vedas, and reminded Yudhiṣṭhira of the deeper power hidden within renunciation and dhārmic endurance.
“O son of Pāṇḍu, he who is defeated by adharma has not truly fallen.
For he stands upheld by righteousness, even if bereft of wealth.
Thy brothers are mighty—Arjuna ever-victorious in battle,
Bhīma, the thunder-arm; Nakula and Sahadeva, wise and skilled.
Draupadī, noble and learned, remains firm in virtue and restraint.
Together ye are strong, united in purpose, unshaken by fate.
Who among men would not envy such a union of power and grace?
This forest exile shall be no fall—it shall be a fire of purification.”
He continued:
“Thou hast been taught by the highest ṛṣis—by Meru Sāvarṇi in the Himavat, by Vyāsa in Vāraṇāvata, by Paraśurāma on Bhrigu’s cliff, by Śaṅkara himself on the banks of the Dhṛṣadvatī. And now, Dhaumya and Nārada shall guide thee in the forest. Remember their counsel.
Surpass Purūravas in wisdom, and the ṛṣis in restraint. Conquer as Indra does; control thy anger like Yama; give like Kubera; restrain desire like Varuṇa. Draw forbearance from the earth, strength from wind, calm from the moon, radiance from the sun.
May health, wealth, and dharma walk with thee—
May thy path be guarded by the unseen.
Go now with our blessing, O king of men—
Return victorious, crowned by fate and virtue.”
Thus addressed with sacred counsel, Yudhiṣṭhira, the just and steadfast, bowed low before Bhīṣma and Droṇa, and taking leave of the court with silent dignity, departed with his brothers, ready to walk the thorned road of exile—firm in spirit, and ever faithful to Dharma.
When the hour of departure drew near, the noble Draupadī, veiled in sorrow, approached Prithā, her revered mother-in-law. With eyes reddened by weeping, she bowed her head in reverence and sought her permission to depart. Then, one by one, she took leave of the elder women in the royal household—those who had shared in her joys and now wept in her sorrow. Clasping each in a sorrowful embrace, Draupadī turned to go.
At that moment, a mournful cry arose from within the inner quarters of the palace. It was the voice of grief echoing from heart to heart, for even the walls of Hastināpura trembled at the injustice.
Kuntī, mother of the Pāṇḍavas, seeing her beloved daughter-in-law dressed in a single cloth, her hair unbound, her eyes dimmed with tears, cried aloud in anguish. Her voice, choked by pain and love, addressed her like a mother to a daughter before a long parting.
“O child of noble soul, grieve not for the wheel of fate turns by its own law.
You have walked the path of dharma as a wife,
Modest, gentle, and wise in conduct,
You have brought honor to both your lineage and ours.
Fortunate, indeed, are the Kurus, that your wrath did not consume them like fire fed with clarified butter. Go now, O gentle one, with the strength of my blessings. Those who walk with dharma shall never truly fall.
And while you walk the forest path, I entrust to your heart my youngest son—Sahadeva. Watch over him, O Krishna, for he is tender and silent, and calamity weighs heavily on the gentle.”
Thus blessed by Prithā, Draupadī—still clad in her single, blood-stained garment—departed in tears. Her unbound hair fell about her shoulders, and grief clouded her every step. Yet she walked with dignity, as if the earth herself made way for her feet.
Kuntī, torn between love and sorrow, followed her for some distance. Then, turning her gaze upon her sons, her heart broke anew.
There they stood—once princes clad in glory, now stripped of their royal garb, clothed in bark and deer-skins, their eyes cast down, their honor trampled, surrounded by gloating enemies and silently grieving allies.
She embraced them all, one by one, and spoke in a voice frail yet filled with fire—
“You who were born of gods and walked like kings—
Whose hearts are pure and arms like thunderbolts—
Why has dharma allowed such injustice to fall upon you?
What dark merit of mine has borne this poisoned fruit?
You are learned in the śāstras, devoted to truth and sacrifice. You have never turned from righteousness, nor broken your vows. Whence, then, has this calamity come? Who has unleashed this sin upon our house?
Alas! It is I who am cursed. All this must be the harvest of my karma. You, my sons, are the fruits of long suffering and penance, and now I see you thrown into the forest like exiles. If I had known that such would be your fate, I would never have descended from the mountains of Śatāśṛṅga to Hastināpura after your father passed.”
She paused, her lips trembling, her body trembling with emotion.
“Fortunate was Pāṇḍu, who now rests free of this sorrow.
Fortunate too was noble Mādrī,
Who left this world with her heart unsplit by the agony of parting.
Oh, why was death withheld from me, who must watch you suffer so?”
Clinging to Draupadī once more, she cried—
“O Krishna, radiant daughter of Drupada, why do you abandon me so?
Has Brahmā forgotten to end my life,
That I should be forced to watch my children fall into exile,
While I, a lifeless shell, yet breathe?”
Then, raising her voice in a call to the unseen Lord of Dvārakā, she cried—
“O Kṛṣṇa, O soul of the universe, O slayer of Madhu, where art thou now?
They say thy grace uplifts those who think of thee in despair.
Come now, O Govinda, and uphold dharma,
For my sons are crushed beneath its weight!”
Her tears streamed without end, and her voice rang with the agony of a mother and the wisdom of an elder.
“How can this be, when Bhīṣma lives and Droṇa lives,
When Kripa, guardian of dharma, yet walks the court?
Why do the wise remain silent, while adharma rises like a wave?
O Sahadeva, turn not away from me! You are my youngest, my quiet joy, the last lamp of my hopes. Let your brothers go, but stay beside me. Let me feel your presence in this house of sorrow.”
But the hour of departure had come. Fate had drawn its curtain, and the exile of the sons of Pāṇḍu had begun.
Thus consoled by their noble mother, the sons of Pāṇḍu, torn by sorrow yet firm in resolve, departed from Hastināpura. Clad in robes of bark and deer-skin, their ornaments cast aside, they walked with heads bowed yet spirits unbroken. Their hearts, though heavy with pain, were kindled by the fire of their vows.
Vidura, wise and sorrow-stricken, gently guided Kuntī back to his own home. With soft words and steadfast presence, he sought to ease her anguish, though the grief that filled her heart was like the ocean—vast and without shore.
In the inner chambers of Dhṛtarāṣṭra's palace, the sound of weeping rose like wind through broken reeds. The royal women, having heard the full tale—of Draupadī dragged by her hair into the assembly, of the sons of Pāṇḍu stripped of their kingdom and cast into exile—cursed the Kauravas with bitter tears. They condemned the silence of the elders, the cruelty of Duryodhana, and the blind injustice that had unfolded before their very eyes.
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For a long time, those gentle-born ladies sat still, veiling their lotus-like faces with trembling hands. No words were exchanged, for the grief was too deep and the shame too sharp.
And in the palace of the king, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, sleepless and disturbed, tossed like a ship amidst stormy waters. His heart, once hardened by ambition and fear, now burned with dread for what the future would bring.
“What curse have I brought upon my house,” he thought,
“That joy has turned to ashes, and the fire of enmity grows unchecked?
What fate awaits my sons, now swollen with pride
And deaf to the warnings of the wise?”
Thus lost in anxious thought, the old monarch sent word to his trusted counselor.
"Let Kṣattā come to me at once," he commanded, "without delay or excuse."
And Vidura, who knew the signs of collapse in both body and kingdom, hastened to the king. Entering the darkened chamber where the blind monarch sat, Vidura bowed his head.
Then Dhṛtarāṣṭra, voice taut with worry, asked—
"O wise one, tell me truly—how did the sons of Pāṇḍu depart from this city of kings?
Were their hearts torn? Did the people weep? Did Draupadī speak any word?
I feel a shadow falling on my soul. Speak, Kṣattā, for I am shaken."
When Vidura, wise and far-seeing, arrived at the palace, the blind monarch Dhṛtarāṣṭra, struck with fear and guilt, timidly asked his brother—
“O Kṣattā, how fare my nephews as they journey into exile? How goes the righteous Yudhiṣṭhira, the steadfast son of Dharma? How proceeds Arjuna, peerless among archers? And what of the twins, the sons of Mādrī? Tell me also of Dhaumya the sage, and of Draupadī, the princess born of fire. Describe to me in full their gestures and bearing as they departed. My heart burns with longing to know.”
Vidura, his voice heavy with sorrow, replied:
“Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Kuntī and upholder of Dharma, walks with his face veiled by his upper cloth. His gaze turned inward, he restrains his fury—for he knows his wrath could consume the world.”
“I will not burn my kinsmen with the fire of my glance,”
Thought he, whose wrath could split the skies.
So, veiled in silence and forbearance he walks—
The weight of virtue upon his brow.
“Bhīma, the son of the wind, strides like a storm-tossed lion, gazing upon his mighty arms. He stretches them often, flexing the muscles of vengeance. His silence is the silence before thunder.”
“These arms,” he thinks, “shall crush my foes.
Like thunderbolts they will fall in war.
O Duryodhana, remember this sight—
For it shall haunt thy last breath.”
“Arjuna, the ambidextrous bowman, walks behind his elder, scattering grains of sand upon the path—each one a symbol of the arrows he shall unleash in war.”
“As easily as sand falls from my hand,” he vows,
“So shall shafts fall from Gāṇḍīva’s bow.
Should war arise, these grains shall bloom
Into a storm no army withstands.”
“Sahadeva has smeared his face with dust, hiding himself in grief. 'Let no one know me in this day of dishonour,' he thinks. Nakula, ever the most handsome of men, too stains himself with earth, lest the gaze of onlookers still be drawn to him despite their fall.”
“Draupadī, her heart a burning coal, follows her husbands with hair unbound and one bloodstained cloth for a garment. Her tears fall freely, and yet her bearing is that of a queen among exiles.”
“Let the wives of my enemies one day wear what I now wear,” she swears,
“Let them know this pain, this fire, this curse.
With blood-stained hair and weeping eyes,
Let them walk this very path, bereft of sons and kings.”
“Dhaumya, the learned priest, goes before them all. In his hand he carries kuśa grass, its tips pointed southwest, the direction of death. He chants the verses of the Sāma Veda—hymns offered to Yama, god of the departed.”
“Thus shall the priests of the Kurus,” he intones,
“Sing these dirges when sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra fall.
This is the road to the pyre they now prepare,
Though wrapped today in pride and gold.”
Dhṛtarāṣṭra, his voice trembling, asked, “But why, O Vidura, do they depart in such strange and varied guise?”
Vidura replied with quiet gravity:
“O King, this is no ordinary departure. Each gesture is a vow. Each action speaks what they have not voiced. Though robbed of kingdom and honour, they walk not as vanquished men but as storm clouds gathering strength. Yudhiṣṭhira conceals his rage to preserve the world; Bhīma bares his strength to remind the world what waits; Arjuna promises slaughter by the flick of his hand; the twins hide their grace out of shame and resolve; Draupadī curses with silence more terrible than speech; Dhaumya leads them like a death-priest walking before a royal funeral.”
“And the people, O King, the people wail. 'Alas! Our masters are gone!' they cry. 'Fie upon the elders who watched like blind men while Dharma was banished!' They turn from your sons, O Dhṛtarāṣṭra, for they know no peace can come from unrighteous gain.”
“We are a city bereft,” they say,
“Our protectors exiled by deceit.
How shall we bow to these hollow kings,
When Dharma walks no more among us?”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
And as the sons of Kuntī vanished from the gates of Hastināpura, the heavens echoed their sorrow. Lightning flashed without clouds. The earth trembled beneath the city walls. Rahu seized the sun though it was not his time. Meteors fell, veering rightward, and vultures shrieked atop the sacred roofs.
Jackals howled from temple spires,
Ravens croaked from royal towers.
The city shook, the signs were clear—
The house of Bharata stood cursed by fate.
These portents, O King, were not without cause. They heralded the downfall born from thy counsel—an age of war written in the blood of kings.
While Dhṛtarāṣṭra, the blind monarch of the Kuru race, sat conversing with the wise Vidura—his heart churning with fear and foreboding—there came a sudden stillness over the assembly hall, as if time itself paused.
In that stillness, O King, before the gathered elders and princes, there appeared a vision divine and terrible—a celestial Ṛṣi, radiant with the fire of tapas, descended from the sky, his body glowing with the light of the Vedas, his presence resounding like the thunder before a storm.
And that great seer, whose voice bore the weight of fate, spoke aloud before all present:
“In the fourteenth year hence,
By the folly of Duryodhana’s mind,
Shall all the Kauravas fall—
Slain by Bhīma’s might and Arjuna’s bow.”
So uttered the seer, and even as his voice lingered like thunder in the clouds, he vanished—rising upward through the firmament, borne by his own ascetic brilliance. The assembly was left in silence, struck dumb by the certainty of doom.
Then Duryodhana, Karṇa, and Śakuni—eyes burning with fear and stubborn pride—turned with desperation to Droṇa, their revered preceptor, seeing in him their last refuge and shield.
“O ācārya,” they cried, “we surrender our kingdom unto thee! Be our protector, our strength, our hope!”
Moved by their plea, Droṇa, ever wise and solemn, spoke with measured gravity to Duryodhana and his companions:
“Ye fools, know this well—
The sons of Pāṇḍu are not to be slain.
They are born of celestial seed,
While I am but mortal and bound by fate.”
“The sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra,” he continued, “have now approached me with reverence and dependence. Though I know the course of destiny is supreme, I cannot abandon those who seek my aid. The Pāṇḍavas, though cheated and exiled by your cruelty, go now into the forest, keeping their word. For twelve years they shall dwell in ascetic life, bearing all hardships, and then they shall return—burning with wrath and blazing with vengeance. And when they return, O Kauravas, the earth shall tremble beneath their feet.”
He paused, and his voice grew heavy with personal sorrow.
“I once humbled Drupada in sport,
Stripped him of pride and throne.
In grief he vowed to slay me—
And from his yajña was born that flame:
Dṛṣṭadyumna, armed from birth,
Mail-clad and wrath-eyed, sprung from fire.
And with him came the dark princess,
Draupadī, fate’s own daughter.”
“Know this,” Droṇa declared, “that fire-born prince is destined to take my life. I fear him, for he was created to end me. And now he stands beside the Pāṇḍavas, a brother by alliance, a warrior by wrath.”
“O Duryodhana, do not be proud—
For thy triumph is as fleeting
As the winter’s sun-shadow beneath the palm,
Which dances for a moment at its base,
Then vanishes forever.”
“O Bharata, perform your rites, enjoy your wealth, celebrate your hollow joys—while time permits. But know that this happiness is a mirage. When the thirteenth year ends, and the fourteenth dawns, destruction shall visit you like a blazing comet sent by time itself.”
Vaiśampāyana concluded:
Thus did the venerable Droṇa, torn between loyalty and fate, speak in prophecy and grief. And the words of the Ṛṣi echoed still in the hearts of all assembled—words not of warning alone, but of doom sealed by the choices of men.
Hearing the grave words of Droṇa, which rang with truth and the echoes of impending fate, King Dhṛtarāṣṭra, the aged monarch tormented by inner darkness and rising dread, turned at last to Vidura—his wise brother, his conscience—and spoke with trembling voice.
“O Kṣattā,” he said, “what the ācārya has spoken is true. Every syllable bears the weight of destiny.”
Then, like one waking from a dream of delusion, he gave command—too late, yet with lingering affection:
“Go now, O Vidura, swift and sure,
Seek out the sons of Pāṇḍu pure.
If they return, let them come in grace,
With loving hearts and no disgrace.
And if they choose to dwell apart,
Still let them go with honored heart—
With cars and arms and warriors true,
And comforts granted as is due.”
Thus, in remorse, the blind king sought to offer balm to the wounds he had allowed to fester—sending words of peace after sons already burdened with exile and betrayal.
After the Pāṇḍavas had departed into the forest—defeated at dice, robbed of kingdom and honour—Dhṛtarāṣṭra was seized by anxiety like a tree shaken by unseen winds. Though the earth was now his in name, its wealth resting in the hands of his sons, peace did not dwell in his heart. Restless and sighing in grief, the blind monarch sat upon his throne, veiled in fear and regret.
Then Sanjaya, his ever-faithful charioteer and counsellor, approached and spoke gently, yet with firmness:
“O lord of the earth, now that thy sons possess the world entire,
And the sons of Pāṇḍu dwell in woods, clad in bark and fire,
Why, O King, does sorrow gnaw thy mind,
As if joyless even amidst what others strive to find?”
But Dhṛtarāṣṭra replied, his voice heavy with dread:
“Can joy abide when doom draws near?
What shield have we but trembling fear?
For those five lions—sons of Kuntī—shall return with wrath,
And bring a tempest in their path.
With chariots vast and allies strong,
Shall not our days be numbered wrong?”
Then Sanjaya, wise and unwavering, spoke words laden with dharma and warning:
“O king, this ruin is no chance misfortune—it is the sure fruit of adharma. What was sown in blindness will now ripen in blood. Though Bhīṣma warned you, though Droṇa advised caution, though Vidura pleaded with heart and soul, your wicked-minded son did not desist. Duryodhana, shameless and cruel, sent forth the sūta’s son as a messenger—not with peace, but to drag a chaste and noble woman into the court.
When doom approaches, even wisdom is overturned,
And virtue, once embraced, is mocked and spurned.
A man stricken by fate will see
Good as evil, and evil as sanctity.
Reason flees where destruction is near—
He clutches sin and holds it dear.
The dragging of Draupadī, O king, was no mere insult—it was a rift torn in the fabric of cosmic order. That chaste queen, not born of womb but of sacrificial flame, stood in the court like a blazing curse. In her time of purity, wearing a single cloth, her hair unbound, she cast her tear-streaked eyes upon the Pāṇḍavas—once kings, now bound in shame, stripped of glory and restrained by dharma.
They, who could crush mountains, remained still as stone—for they were bound not by weakness, but by their vow to righteousness.
And before the gathered kings she stood,
While arrows of insult pierced her mood.
Duryodhana, Karṇa—cruel in speech—
Mocked the queen beyond reason’s reach.
And so it was, in that fateful hour,
That they sowed the seeds of ruinous power.
O monarch, all this I behold as a dark omen. The winds of fate carry fire in their breath. The cries of Draupadī shall not fade—they shall return with the thunder of vengeance. And in that hour, neither Bhīṣma’s arms nor Droṇa’s wisdom shall stay what must come.”
Then Dhṛtarāṣṭra, his heart shadowed by fear and foreboding, spoke to Sanjaya with trembling voice:
“O Sanjaya, the wrathful glances of the noble daughter of Drupada—
That fire-eyed queen, radiant with dharma—
Could consume the earth, even as Rudra devours creation at the end of time.
How then, I ask, can even one son of mine hope to survive?
The aged king’s memory reeled under the weight of omens and guilt. He recalled the haunting wail that echoed through the royal palace—the cries of women, noble and humble alike, who saw Draupadī dragged into the hall of kings.
“The wives of the Bharatas, uniting with Gāndhārī, wept aloud when they beheld the fair and virtuous Krishna—young, wedded, adorned with dharma—pulled by the hair into a gambler’s court. Her humiliation seared through the hearts of all who still valued righteousness. And even now, O Sanjaya, they mourn every day, as if death had come not with swords but with silence and shame.”
The king lowered his voice, recalling what the land itself had witnessed:
“That night, the fires of the Brāhmaṇas did not rise—
The Agnihotra remained unkindled.
The winds howled as at dissolution’s hour,
And thunder cracked without cloud or cause.
Meteors fell in crooked arcs, and Rāhu swallowed the Sun—
Though the appointed hour of eclipse was far away.
He remembered too the omens within the royal armory.
“Our chariot-yards were ablaze with phantom fire. Flagstaffs broke and fell without hand or storm. Jackals howled from within Duryodhana’s sacrificial hall. From every direction, asses brayed, calling ruin into our midst. Bhīṣma rose and left the assembly. Droṇa and Kṛpa followed, as did Somadatta and venerable Vāhlika—all sages of war and age, who could no longer bear to remain.”
Then Dhṛtarāṣṭra confessed the desperate remedy he had tried.
“At Vidura’s urging, I called forth Draupadī and said, ‘Ask of me any boon, O noble lady, and it shall be yours.’ She chose the freedom of her husbands. And thus, out of shame and not justice, I freed the Pāṇḍavas, returning to them their arms, their chariots, and the path to exile.”
The king now turned inward, haunted by the words of Vidura:
“This will bring ruin,” said Kṣattā,
“This cruel dragging of Krishna into the court.
For she is Śrī incarnate—pure, celestial flame—
The soul of sacrifice and sacred fame.
She is wife to the sons of Dharma,
Born of fire and dharma’s law.
The Vrishṇis, the Pāñcālas, and the sons of Pāṇḍu
Shall not forgive this insult raw.
He remembered each word Vidura had spoken in warning, as if hearing them again from the mouth of conscience:
“Supported by Vāsudeva of invincible might, Arjuna shall return, his bow raining vengeance like the storm clouds of Rudra. And Bhīma—ah, Bhīma!—he shall come like Yama himself, whirling his mace in battle, and no king alive shall withstand its fury.
O Sanjaya, Vidura was right. He told me:
‘Seek peace, O King, and not war.
Unite thy sons with the sons of Kuntī.
Recall how Bhīma crushed mighty Jarāsandha
With bare hands, like a lion tearing an elephant.
If they return with wrath in their hearts,
None shall stand before their arms.
He advised me with words of dharma and welfare, for the good of the realm. But I—I did not listen. My love for Duryodhana blinded me, and thus I let the darkness grow.”