novelraw Arc 2 – Arjunabhigamana Parva - Chapter 4 - The Kamyaka forest
Arc 2 – Arjunabhigamana Parva - Chapter 4 - The Kamyaka forest
Vaiśampāyana said:
When the citizens and well-wishers had returned to their homes, Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Kuntī and steadfast keeper of his word, turned to his brothers and spoke with calm resolve:
“For twelve years we must dwell in the solitude of the wilderness.
Seek, therefore, a place within this vast forest—
A place rich in birds and deer, in flowers and fruits,
Fair to the eye, auspicious to the heart,
Inhabited by the virtuous,
Where we may pass our years in peace.”
Dhanañjaya, bowing slightly as one honours a preceptor, answered:
“O son of Dharma, thou hast served the aged and the wise,
And nothing in the realm of men is unknown to thee.
Thou hast honoured the Brāhmaṇas—Vyāsa, Nārada,
And those who move freely from the courts of the gods
To the realms of Brahmā, to the halls of Gandharvas and Apsarās.
Thou knowest their counsel and their strength;
Thou knowest what will bring us good.
Yet if it please thee, let us dwell here—
Beside this sacred lake Dvaitavana,
Shining with flowers, beloved of many birds.
Here would we gladly pass the twelve years,
Unless thou thinkest otherwise.”
Yudhiṣṭhira replied with gentle approval:
“O Pārtha, thy counsel is mine.
Let us dwell in that holy, celebrated lake of Dvaita.”
So the virtuous son of Pāṇḍu, surrounded by Brāhmaṇas of every vow—some tending the sacred fire, some living without it, some devoted to the Vedas, some forest-dwellers who lived on alms—made his way toward the sacred waters.
With them came hundreds of great ascetics crowned with tapas and clothed in bark, wearing matted locks. The sons of Pāṇḍu, with this host of the wise, entered the pleasing woods of Dvaita.
There Yudhiṣṭhira beheld the forest, clothed at summer’s end in flowering śāla, palm, mango, madhūka, nīpa, kadamba, śārja, arjuna, and golden karnikāra trees.
From their lofty perches peacocks, ḍātyūhas, cakoras, vāṛhins, and kokilas poured down a rain of melody. Herds of elephants vast as living hills roamed there, their temples streaming with rut, attended by herds of she-elephants.
Coming to the blessed Sarasvatī—here called Bhogavatī—the king saw the hermitages of the accomplished, sanctified souls clad in bark, crowned with jaṭā.
Dismounting with his brothers and followers, that lion among men entered the forest as Indra enters his heaven. Hosts of Cāraṇas and Siddhas came to gaze upon the monarch devoted to truth.
They saluted him as a king or a god; he returned their salutations with joined hands. Then, like his father Pāṇḍu in days past, Yudhiṣṭhira sat beneath a mighty tree heavy with flowering vines, surrounded by his brothers—Bhīma, Dhanañjaya, the twins, and Kṛṣṇā herself, all resting from the road.
The great tree, bending beneath its wreath of creepers, with those five lion-shouldered archers resting in its shade, seemed like a mountain upon whose slopes five proud elephants had found repose.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus, after much wandering, the princes found at last a pleasant refuge in that forest—rich in flowering śāla trees, gladdened by the song of birds, and washed by the pure waters of the Sarasvatī. There, like many Indras in mortal form, they roamed at ease.
Yudhiṣṭhira, that bull of the Kuru race, devoted himself to honouring the yatis, munis, and the foremost Brāhmaṇas of the woods, offering them roots and fruits of the finest kind. Dhaumya, their priest and steadfast guide, tended to them as a father would his sons, performing the sacred rites of iṣṭi and paitreya to uphold their dharma in exile.
One day there came to their hermitage the ancient ṛṣi Mārkaṇḍeya, glowing with the splendour of blazing fire, his energy abundant and undiminished by the ages. Yudhiṣṭhira, peerless in strength and virtue, rose to greet him with reverence. Bhīma, Arjuna, the twins, and Draupadī also honoured him with due homage, as did the gathered ascetics.
The sage beheld them—warriors in the garb of forest-dwellers—and a faint smile touched his lips, as if a memory stirred. Yudhiṣṭhira, noticing this amidst the gravity of their condition, asked gently:
“All these ascetics grieve to see us thus fallen into hardship,
Yet thou alone dost smile.
Is it in joy? Or dost thou behold in us some cause for mirth?”
Mārkaṇḍeya replied:
“O child, my heart does not rejoice at thy misfortune,
Nor does pride dwell in me.
Yet thy plight recalls to me another—Rāma, son of Daśaratha,
Truth-bound and stainless.
At his father’s word he too dwelt in the forest,
Lakṣmaṇa by his side, bow in hand,
Roaming the slopes of Ṛśyamūka.
That Rāma was like Indra in majesty,
Like Yama in justice,
Like the slayer of Namuci in battle.
Yet, renouncing all pleasures,
He embraced the life of exile as his dharma.”
The sage’s voice grew deeper, and his counsel took the form of timeless warning:
“Let none say, ‘I am mighty,’ and act unrighteously.
Even kings like Nabhāga and Bhagīratha,
Who ruled the seas’ encircled earth by truth alone,
Won not by force but by righteousness the realms beyond death.
The virtuous king of Kāśi and Karūṣa,
For renouncing his wealth and lands,
Was mocked as a mad dog—yet his glory endures.
The seven ṛṣis, radiant in the heavens,
Blaze there because they followed the ordinances
The Creator set forth in the Vedas.
Even the mighty elephants,
Huge as mountain ridges and tusked like living fortresses,
Transgress not the law of their Maker.
All creatures act as ordained for their kind;
Thus should no man boast, ‘Might is mine.’”
Then, turning to the eldest Pāṇḍava, the sage spoke with warmth:
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“O son of Pṛthā, in truth, virtue, noble conduct, and modesty
Thou surpassest all creatures.
Thy fame and energy shine like fire, like the Sun himself.
Firm in thy promise, thou wilt endure these years of exile;
And when the time is come,
By thine own strength
Thou shalt reclaim from the Kauravas thy blazing prosperity.”
Having thus spoken to Yudhiṣṭhira, who sat surrounded by ascetics and friends, the great ṛṣi rose. Bowing to Dhaumya, to the sons of Pāṇḍu, and to the gathered holy ones, Mārkaṇḍeya took his leave.
With serene step and mind fixed upon the Eternal, he turned towards the north—his figure soon fading into the forest’s green, like the setting sun swallowed by the horizon.
Vaiśampāyana said:
While the illustrious son of Pāṇḍu dwelt in the Dvaita woods, the forest itself became a sanctuary. Brahmanas in great numbers took up residence there, their presence turning the grove into a second realm of Brahmā. By the clear lake within that forest, the air rang with sacred sound—chants of the Yajus, the Ṛk, the Sāman, mingled with the twang of the bows of the sons of Pṛthā, weaving together the ways of Brahmana and Kṣatriya into a harmony most rare.
One evening, as the sacred fires blazed for the evening homa, the venerable ṛṣi Vaka of the Dalvya lineage approached Yudhiṣṭhira, who sat in the midst of assembled sages.
Vaka said:
"Behold, O son of Pṛthā, the hour of sacrifice has come. The sacred flames, tended by Brahmanas of steadfast vows, rise heavenward in this blessed place under thy protection. Here are gathered the descendants of Bhṛgu and Aṅgiras, the sons of Vasiṣṭha and of Kaśyapa, the offspring of Agastya and of Atri—foremost among the twice-born, united under thy care.
Know, O king, that as fire fanned by the wind consumes a forest, so the power of Brahmana joined with the might of Kṣatriya may burn away all foes. He who would rule long over this world and the next must never be without Brahmanas near him. A king, guided by one learned in dharma and worldly art, slays his enemies and preserves his realm. Thus did King Vali, cherishing the twice-born, rule the earth in prosperity—until, turning against them, he met his downfall.
This earth, encircled by the ocean, bows only to the Kṣatriya who is ruled by Brahmana counsel. Bereft of such guidance, a king is like an elephant without a driver—mighty yet aimless. The Brahmana’s sight is matchless, the Kṣatriya’s strength peerless; when these unite, the world yields itself willingly. As fire fed by the wind devours straw and timber, so kings supported by Brahmanas consume their enemies.
Therefore, O Yudhiṣṭhira, to gain what thou hast not, to increase what thou hast, and to spend rightly upon the worthy, keep ever near thee a Brahmana of fame, learned in the Vedas, wise in counsel, and experienced in the ways of men. Thy reverence for the Brahmanas has made thy fame blaze through the three worlds.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
When Vaka had spoken, all the Brahmanas with Yudhiṣṭhira rose and honoured him. Hearing his praise of the king, they were gladdened in heart. And there in that forest shone the great ṛṣis—Dvaipāyana, Nārada, Rāma Jamadagnya, Pṛthuśravas, Indradyumna, Bhālaki, Kṛtacetas, Sahasrapāt, Karṇasravas, Muñja, Lavanāśva, Kāśyapa, Harita, Sthūlakarṇa, Agniveśya, Śaunaka, Kṛtavāk, Suvākana, Vṛhādāśva, Vibhāvasu, Ūrdharetas, Vṛṣamitra, Suhotra, Hotravāhana, and countless others of rigid vow—adoring Yudhiṣṭhira as the sages of heaven adore Purandara.
Exiled to the wilds, the sons of Pṛthā sat with Kṛṣṇā in the stillness of evening. The forest air was heavy with sorrow, and their hearts—like lamps in the wind—flickered beneath the weight of grief. Then Kṛṣṇā, dear to her lords and steadfast in devotion, turned to Yudhiṣṭhira and spoke, her voice quivering yet edged with fire.
Kṛṣṇā said:
“O King, the sinful, cruel, and hard-hearted son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra feels no sorrow for our plight. That wretch, whose mind is steeped in wickedness, could send thee—his virtuous elder—into the forest clad in deer-skin, and feel no regret! His heart is not of flesh but of forged steel, for he could utter such harsh words to thee in the hour of thy wrong.
Thou, who wert reared in comfort and honour, art now cast into distress—yet he rejoices among his friends. When thou didst set out for the forest in the garb of exile, only four—Duryodhana, Karṇa, the scheming Śakuni, and fierce Duḥśāsana—shed no tears. All others among the Kurus wept, their eyes clouded with grief.
I behold this bed of grass and recall the ivory throne, gem-studded, upon which thou once didst sit. I remember thy form radiant with sandal-paste, and now I see it soiled with dust and earth. I saw thee robed in silken white; now thou wearest rags. Once, food of the purest kind was borne from thy halls on plates of gold to feed Brahmanas by the thousand. Ascetics—both homeless wanderers and householders—were ever honoured by thee, their every wish fulfilled. But now, O King, the same hands that fed the world gather fruits and roots from the forest floor.
And these thy brothers—youthful, strong, adorned with noble bearing—once dined on fare prepared by skilled cooks; now they live upon the wood’s meagre yield. My heart knows no peace, for I see Bhīmasena, who could alone uproot the Kurus in battle, bearing this hardship in silence for thy sake. I see Arjuna, whose arrows fall like the end-time fire, once worshipped by gods and Dānavas alike, now dwelling in exile. He who has vanquished celestials and men, serpents and kings, waits in patience, though his arm could strike down the earth’s hosts.
I see Nakula, fair as the moon and foremost of swordsmen, and Sahadeva, brave and steadfast—both enduring grief they never earned. And I, born of Drupada’s line, sister to Dhṛṣṭadyumna, daughter-in-law of Pāṇḍu, wife to heroes—do I not too dwell in this forest, torn from my rightful place?
O King, it is said no kṣatriya is bereft of wrath—yet in thee I see the saying broken. The warrior who fails to kindle his energy when the moment comes is scorned by all creatures. Likewise, he who will not forgive when forgiveness is due wins the hatred of gods and men alike. Therefore, wield thy anger as thy dharma decrees—slay the foe, for with thy power there is none who can withstand thee.”
Her words fell like sparks on the still air, each syllable born of loyalty and unyielding pride, seeking to awaken the lion-heart of the son of Dharma.
Draupadī continued:
“Upon this, O King, the wise recount an ancient tale—
the discourse between Prahlāda, lord of the Asuras,
and Vāli, son of Virocana, heir to his mighty line.
One day, Vāli, noble in stature yet troubled in thought,
bowed before his grandsire, master of duty’s mysteries,
and spoke with humility:
‘O revered one, tell me truly—
is forgiveness the greater virtue, or is might the greater good?
My mind is divided; resolve for me this doubt.
Whatever thou shalt command, I shall follow without fail.’
Then Prahlāda, wise in the ways of gods and men,
answered his son’s son with words measured and clear,
like a river flowing between two strong banks.
‘Know this with certainty, O child—
might is not always meritorious,
nor is forgiveness always the highest virtue.
To forgive at all times is to invite many ills.
Servants, strangers, and foes alike come to scorn such a man;
none bow before him, none hold him in awe.
Therefore the wise praise not an unbroken habit of pardon.
The servants of one who forgives without limit
grow insolent, careless of their duties.
They seize for themselves his wealth,
his chariots, raiment, ornaments, beds, and seats;
they withhold gifts meant for others,
and cease to show the respect their master is due.
Disregard, O child, is more bitter than death.
Sons, servants, dependents, even strangers—
all speak harshly to the man who pardons without measure.
Some dare covet his wife;
and the wife of such a man, seeing his weakness,
acts according to her own will.
Servants given to pleasure, when spared even mild punishment,
sink into vice,
and the wicked grow bold in injuring their master.
These and many other evils, O Vāli,
follow the man who forgives always.’”
Draupadī spoke on, her voice steady but edged with fire:
“Hear now, O son of Virocana,” said Prahlāda to Vāli,
“the faults of those who never forgive.
The man of unbridled wrath, moving in the darkness of his own fury,
strikes with punishments whether deserved or not.
In the heat of his strength he alienates friends,
and is shunned alike by kin and stranger.
His insults bring him loss of wealth;
he reaps only scorn, grief, confusion, enmity, and ruin.
Such a man, like a serpent coiled within a house,
fills all hearts with dread;
and those who fear him watch for the opening to harm him.
What prosperity can come to one
who stands as a terror to the world?
Therefore, O child, a man should neither brandish might without measure
nor pardon on all occasions.
Strength and forgiveness must each be shown in their proper season.
He who forgives when the hour calls for mercy,
and strikes when the moment demands power,
wins joy both in this world and the next.
Hear now the times when forgiveness is the law,
as the wise have laid down.
If one has served thee well, even if later he wrongs thee deeply,
remember his past kindness and forgive.
If offence comes from folly or ignorance,
pardon it—wisdom is not easily attained by man.
But if a man sins knowingly and hides behind a plea of ignorance,
let him be punished, though the fault be small;
such crooked men must never be spared.
The first offence of any creature should be forgiven;
the second, though light, should be punished.
If the wrong be done unwillingly,
judge his plea with careful inquiry before granting pardon.
Know this also—humility may conquer strength,
and humility may conquer weakness;
there is nothing it cannot subdue.
Yet one must weigh place, time, and one’s own power;
for no deed prospers that ignores these.
There are times, too, when a man forgives
from fear of public wrath—
these are the seasons of pardon.
At all other times, let strength be set against transgressors.”
And Draupadī, turning to Yudhiṣṭhira, pressed her plea:
“I, therefore, O King, deem the time come for thee to act with might!
These Kurus, the greedy sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra,
who wrong us without cease—
this is not the season for forbearance.
The meek and ever-forgiving are cast aside,
while the fierce trample upon them.
He alone is truly king who knows to wield both—
wrath and mercy—
each in its appointed hour.”
Yudhiṣṭhira, ever steadfast in self-mastery, answered Draupadī with gentle gravity:
“Anger, O fair one, is both the slayer and the prosperer of men.
Know this truth—
it is the root alike of fortune and of ruin.
He who bridles his wrath wins prosperity;
he who surrenders to it harvests only misery.
Anger consumes all creatures;
how then should I, knowing its nature, cherish it?
The wrathful man sins without measure—
he may strike his preceptor,
revile his elders,
or heap upon the innocent the doom of the guilty.
In his blindness he cannot tell what should be said
from what must be left unsaid.
There is no deed too dark for anger,
no word too vile for its tongue.
In anger a man may spare the guilty and slay the blameless,
even hurl his own soul toward the realm of Yama.
Seeing such fruits, the wise cast wrath far from them,
seeking instead the high prosperity
that comes in this world and the next to tranquil hearts.
He who meets an angry man without anger
is healer to them both.
But if the weak rise in wrath against the strong,
they forge their own destruction
and win no region of blessedness hereafter.
Therefore the sages counsel the feeble to master their rage.
He who, though oppressed, suffers his wrath to sleep,
rejoices in the other world,
having passed by his tormentor as one passes a shadow.
Thus do the virtuous praise the conquerors of anger.
Truth is greater than falsehood,
gentleness more fruitful than cruelty.
How then could I, even for the sake of striking down Duryodhana,
take into my soul that which the wise have banished?
The learned call him truly strong
who shows wrath in seeming,
but in heart restrains its flame.
For anger clouds the eye of discernment;
it blinds the path, it knows no respect,
it strikes the master and the saint alike.
Therefore, O Kṛṣṇā,
the man of true character casts it far from him
as one casts away a burning brand.”