novelraw Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 19 - The Doom decreed by Agastya
Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 19 - The Doom decreed by Agastya
Vaiśampāyana continued:
When Jataśura had been slain and the Pandavas freed, Dharma’s son returned once more to the hermitage of Nara and Nārāyaṇa. There he dwelt for a time with Draupadī and his brothers, the Brahmanas beside him, awaiting the longed-for return of Arjuna.
One day, recalling his mighty brother Jaya, Yudhiṣṭhira spoke:
“Brothers, four years of exile have passed. Vibhatsu promised that in the fifth year he would return, coming to the bright cliff Śveta, decked with blossoming woods, peacocks and bees, and haunted by fierce beasts, but beloved by celestials and Asuras alike. There shall we meet him, bow in hand, returning after his vow of five years, bearing the weapons he has gained in heaven.”
Hearing the king’s resolve, the Brahmanas blessed the journey:
“O son of Dharma, this will end in prosperity. Trouble borne with steadfastness flowers into joy. By Kṣatriya-dharma shall you win back the earth and rule it in righteousness.”
Thus encouraged, the sons of Pṛthā, attended by sages and guarded by Lomāśa, set forth toward the north. At times they walked the steep paths, at times the Rākṣasas bore them, and sometimes they halted to rest among the wild forests resounding with lions, tigers, and elephants.
On the seventeenth day they reached the sacred slopes of the Himālaya, where streams rushed from crystal cliffs and the snowy peaks gleamed like heaps of gems. There they beheld the hermitage of the royal ṛṣi Vṛṣaparvan, surrounded by flowering trees beside cascading waters. He welcomed them with a father’s love, treating the sons of Pāṇḍu as his own children. They dwelt there seven nights, honoured and refreshed, and on the eighth day, after entrusting to the sage their ornaments, sacrificial vessels, and robes, they sought his leave to depart.
Vṛṣaparvan, wise and far-seeing, instructed them as a father counsels sons: to keep to dharma, to guard their vows, to remember the duties of their order. He blessed them, and walked with them a distance, before returning to his āśrama.
The sons of Kuntī then pressed on, treading the high paths of the mountains. With them went Draupadī, Dhaumya, Lomāśa, and the Brahmanas. They passed caverns dark and perilous, cliffs sheer as walls, yet none faltered, for their hearts were fixed upon meeting Arjuna.
Soon they beheld Gandhamādana, the mountain beloved of Kimpuruṣas, Siddhas, and celestial singers. Its slopes rang with the cries of lions and the trumpeting of elephants, yet it glowed like the gardens of Nandana, ever blooming, fragrant, and delightful to the heart.
As they entered the forested slopes, they heard the calls of birds, sweet and playful, broken by excess of joy. They saw trees laden in every season—mangoes and jacks, pomegranates, citrons, plantains, figs and banyans, bilvas and jujubes, each heavy with fruit, bending their boughs as though offering homage. Flowers of champaka, aśoka, ketaka, vakula, pāṭala, mandāra, and pārijāta made the woods resplendent, their fragrance wafting through the air.
Lotus-lakes spread like jewels upon the mountain’s breast, bright with blue and red blossoms, encircled by swans, ruddy geese, cranes, and countless waterfowl. Bees, drunken with honey, droned in lazy delight, while the farina of the lotus-cups reddened the waters like saffron scattered by unseen hands.
Thus, O king, the Pāṇḍavas wandered amidst the beauty of heaven upon earth, the slopes of Gandhamādana, their hearts uplifted with the nearness of Arjuna’s return.
Vaiśampāyana said:
The sons of Pāṇḍu, wandering the slopes of Gandhamādana with Draupadī and the ṛṣis, beheld sights wondrous and celestial. Yudhiṣṭhira, beholding the marvel of that mountain, spoke with joy to Bhīma of the splendours around them.
Upon the trees the peacocks danced,
Their plumage fanned by mountain breeze;
Maddened by the clouds’ deep trumpets,
They cried their notes with swelling ease.
The golden blossoms of karṇikāra
Shone like earrings for the hills;
The tilaka marked the forest’s brow,
Kuruvakas struck desire’s thrills.
Mango groves with bees enchanted
Hummed like arrows of Kāma’s bow;
Red and sable, gold and emerald,
Forest-fires in blossoms glow.
Lakes lay gleaming, crystal-clear,
With swans afloat and lilies white;
Lotuses swayed in fragrant air,
Bees drank nectar in their flight.
Cascades fell high as palms on palms,
Silver torrents roaring down;
Minerals gleamed—gold, vermilion,
Crimson caves, and clouds earth-brown.
Elephants white as lotus petals
Stirred the lakes with tusks of four;
Parrots flashed in scarlet flocks,
And cranes lined grassy banks once more.
Thus delighted, the Pāṇḍavas gazed upon the mountain, beholding Gandharvas, Kimpuruṣas, and ascetic sages upon its slopes. They came at last to the hermitage of the royal seer Arṣṭiṣena, bare of flesh, firm in penance, and rich in austerity, and greeted him with reverence.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Having approached the ascetic whose sins were consumed by long austerities, Yudhiṣṭhira bent his head in reverence and announced his name. Kṛṣṇā, Bhīma, and the twin sons of Mādrī also bowed before the royal sage, and Dhaumya, the priest of the Pāṇḍavas, paid his respects. By his prophetic sight the sage knew them for who they were, the foremost sons of Pāṇḍu, and he welcomed them with the words:
“Be seated, O children.”
When they had taken their places, the sage of rigid vows questioned Yudhiṣṭhira gently, as a father to a son:
“Do thy thoughts incline not toward falsehood?
Art thou steadfast in dharma?
Hast thou not lessened thy devotion
to father, to mother, to the aged,
and to the venerable keepers of the Vedas?
Do thy feet not stray to sinful paths?
Dost thou know the measure of righteous deeds,
avoiding what is dark and clinging to the light?
Do the pious rejoice when honoured by thee?
Even in exile, dost thou cling to virtue alone?
Do the customs of thy forefathers guide thee—
charity, austerity, purity, candour, forgiveness?
Remember, O son of Dharma,
the Pitṛs laugh and grieve alike
at the birth of a descendant:
‘Will his deeds uplift us, or cast us down?’
He who honours father, mother, teacher,
Agni, and the indwelling Self,
conquers both the worlds.”
Yudhiṣṭhira answered with humility:
“O venerable one, those duties thou hast praised as excellent—
to the best of my power, I follow them faithfully.”
Then the royal sage Arṣṭiṣeṇa spoke further:
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“During the sacred Parvans,
sages who live on air and water
descend upon this holy mountain,
moving as they will through the sky.
Here are seen Kimpuruṣas in dalliance with their mates,
Gandharvas and Apsarases clad in white silk,
Vidyādharas crowned with garlands,
mighty Nāgas, Suparṇas, and serpents of many forms.
On the summits resound celestial drums and conches,
mṛdaṅgas and sweet kettledrums,
their echoes carried upon the winds.
Even by remaining here, O sons of Pāṇḍu,
these wonders may be heard and seen.
But do not think to pass beyond.
Beyond this Kailāsa cliff lies the path of the gods.
Mortals may not enter there.
Rākṣasas guard the way with iron darts,
slaying the rash who trespass.
Here, during the Parvans, even great Vaiśravaṇa,
Lord of Treasures, is borne in splendour,
surrounded by Apsarases,
shining on the heights like the risen sun.
The garden of the celestials lies there,
sporting-place of gods, Dānavas, Siddhas,
and the Yakṣa-king himself.
When Tumburu sings before the Lord of Wealth,
his notes, honeyed and unearthly,
are heard across Gandhamādana.
Here, O Yudhiṣṭhira, marvels beyond count
are revealed to all beings during those holy days.
Therefore remain, O sons of Dharma,
until ye meet again with Arjuna.
Partake of fruits sweet as nectar,
share the food of the sages,
and live here without pride or rashness.
When the appointed time is fulfilled,
thou shalt descend from these heights
and conquer the earth with thine own arms,
ruling it in righteousness.”
Janamejaya said:
“O learned one, how long did my great grandsires, the mighty sons of Pāṇḍu, dwell upon Gandhamādana, that mountain of marvels? What deeds did those heroes of peerless prowess perform there? What food sustained them—these lion-hearted scions of men? Surely Bhīmasena’s arms did not once more clash with the hosts of Yakṣas! Did they behold the Lord of Wealth, Vaiśravaṇa, as Arṣṭiṣeṇa had foretold? All this, O sage, I long to hear in detail. My heart is still unsatisfied by the wonders already told.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Having received the sage’s counsel, the Pāṇḍavas ordered their conduct by his words, walking steadfast in dharma. They dwelt upon Himavat, sustaining themselves on the fare of ascetics—forest fruits, pure honey, the flesh of deer taken with unpoisoned shafts. In this way they passed the fifth year of exile, listening to tales told by Lomāśa. Ghaṭotkaca, having pledged his service, had withdrawn with his Rākṣasa hosts, leaving the brothers to their hermitage.
Months passed in the āśrama of Arṣṭiṣeṇa, filled with marvels and visitations of Munis, Cāraṇas, and pure-souled ascetics. One day, a mighty Suparṇa descended upon the great lake and seized a serpent vast and strong; the mountain trembled, trees cracked as in a storm, and the Pāṇḍavas, with all creatures, stood astonished. Soon after, a fragrant wind swept down from the heights, carrying blossoms of five hues to the river Aśvaratha, delighting Draupadī’s eyes.”
Then Kṛṣṇā, gazing at the blossoms, turned to Bhīma with gentle reproach:
“These flowers of five colors, blown hither by the wind of Suparṇa’s wings,
fall upon the waters before all creatures to see.
In Khāṇḍava thy brother gained Gandīva,
vanquished Gandharvas, Nāgas, and even Indra himself.
Thou too art mighty, irresistible, a terror to foes.
Let the Rākṣasas flee in ten directions,
and show me the blessed summit of this mountain
decked with variegated flowers.
Long have I cherished this hope, O Bhīma—
that by the strength of thine arms I shall behold that peak.”
Her words, half a plea and half a challenge, pierced the heart of Vṛkodara. Like a bull pricked by goad, he rose in wrath and pride, his leonine frame trembling with resolve.
Mighty of shoulders, with eyes red as flame, neck circled in shell-like whorls, teeth shining like a lion’s, tall as a young śāla tree, Bhīma seized his bow, gold-plaited at the back, girded his sword, and raised his mace. Haughty as a king of beasts, fearless as a maddened elephant, he set forth toward the cliff.
The creatures of the forest watched him, radiant as a blazing star, striding toward the heights. Neither weariness nor fear touched him; nor did malice or ill omen stay his steps. The rugged path, narrow as a single man’s passage, he mounted with ease, scaling heights as tall as palm-trees piled one on another.
And behold—upon that summit Bhīma came to the celestial vision:
Golden palaces gleamed like mountain peaks,
walls shining with jewels,
gardens flowing like rivers of color,
ramparts crowned with fluttering pennons.
Damsels danced in radiant rows,
their anklets chiming in the perfumed air;
breezes carried every fragrance,
and trees of many hues sang with birds
in voices sweet as Vedic chant.
There stood the palace of Vaiśravaṇa,
glittering with heaps of gems,
garlanded and adorned,
surpassing the splendor of earthly kings.
Bhīma, mighty-armed, stood upon his bow like a pillar,
his eyes drinking in the grandeur of the Yakṣa-lord.
A wind of gladness swept through all creatures,
balmy, perfumed, gladdening the heart.
Silent, steadfast as a mountain,
he renounced all thought of life and death,
standing with mace, sword, and bow in hand.
Then he blew his conch—its thunder set hairs on end;
he twanged his bowstring,
and struck his arms together with such force
that the echoes unnerved every being
within earshot of the mountain.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
At the sound of Bhīma’s bowstring and the thunder of his conch, the Yakṣas and Rākṣasas, their hairs bristling with dread, rushed toward the sons of Pāṇḍu. Clubs, maces, swords, javelins, and axes blazed in their hands like firebrands of wrath. With a roar they surged upon Vṛkodara.
But Bhīma, lion among men, drew his bow and in an instant cut down their whirling darts and hissing spears. His arrows pierced the roaring fiends both in the sky and on the earth; blood rained upon him like crimson storm, yet he stood unmoved, shining amidst that rain of gore. Severed limbs and shattered weapons fell about him, as clouds scatter before the rising sun.
Like the sun wreathed in storm-clouds,
so Bhīma shone, surrounded by foes.
His shafts blazed forth like rays of dawn,
striking Yakṣas and Rākṣasas to the ground.
Terrified by his might, the hosts broke, their cries of menace turning to wails of distress. Casting aside clubs and axes, they fled southward, their spirits broken by the son of Vāyu.
Then upon the field there stood one unshaken—broad-chested, mighty-armed, the friend of Vaiśravaṇa, a Rākṣasa named Maṇimān. Smiling grimly at the fleeing hordes, he rebuked them:
“How shall ye face the Lord of Wealth and tell him this shame—that a single mortal hath scattered you like leaves in the wind?”
Thus declaring, he strode forth, clubs and javelins flashing in hand, rushing like a maddened elephant. Bhīma pierced him with three keen shafts, yet Maṇimān in wrath whirled a mace vast as a mountain-peak and hurled it against him.
The Pandava loosed a storm of arrows to break its flight, but the blazing mace smote through them like lightning cleaving clouds. With a roar, Bhīma cast his own mace, golden-plated, dreadful to behold.
Thunder clashed against thunder,
iron roared against iron;
the earth trembled with their meeting
as hero and fiend contended in might.
Maṇimān seized a flaming iron club, its golden shaft belching sparks, and hurled it with force. It struck Bhīma’s arm, piercing flesh, then fell earthward with a roar. Wrath kindled in his eyes; grasping his own mace, heavy as fate, he bellowed like a storming lion. He struck down the dart hurled at him, shattering it to splinters, and rushed forward with the swiftness of Garuḍa upon a serpent.
Suddenly leaping into the air, Bhīma brandished his mace and let it fly.
Like Indra’s thunderbolt it sped,
a pestle of doom borne on the wind,
and smote Maṇimān full upon the brow—
the giant crashed down, life broken,
as a bull falls beneath the lion’s claws.
So perished Maṇimān, terror of Yakṣas, before the might of Vṛkodara. And the surviving Rākṣasas, beholding their champion slain, fled eastward, filling the sky with shrieks of grief.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When the mountain caves resounded with tumult and yet Bhīmasena was not seen, Ajātaśatru, with the twins, Draupadī, Dhaumya, and the Brāhmaṇas, was seized with anxiety. Entrusting Kṛṣṇā to the care of Arṣṭiṣena, those lion-hearted warriors, armed with bow and sword, ascended the summit.
There they beheld Bhīma amidst a field of carnage—mighty Rākṣasas weltering on the ground, stricken down by his arm. With mace and sword and bow in hand he stood like Maghavan after slaying the hosts of Dānavas. The Pāṇḍavas embraced their brother, and that mountain peak shone resplendent, like heaven itself when the Lokapālas gather.
But Yudhiṣṭhira, beholding the slain Yakṣas and the guarded realm of Kubera violated, reproved Bhīma gently:
“Brother, whether through rashness or ignorance thou hast done this deed, yet it is unlike an anchorite’s path. Even gods are displeased when needless slaughter is wrought. The wise declare that acts offensive to kings and guardians of worlds bring sin upon the doer. If thou seekest my good, commit not again such a deed.”
Thus spoke Dharmarāja, and silence fell among them as he pondered.
Meanwhile, the surviving Rākṣasas, terrified and disheveled, fled swiftly to the abode of Vaiśravaṇa. Beaten, weaponless, and smeared with gore, they cried aloud before their lord:
“O Lord of Treasures, thy foremost warriors are slain! A mortal, trespassing alone, hath struck down all the Krodhavasas with mace and arrow. Thy friend Maṇimān too lieth dead. We alone are spared by his grace. Do thou resolve what is fitting.”
Hearing these tidings, Kubera, king of Yakṣas, his eyes red with wrath, exclaimed in wonder: “What is this?”
Then, rising in splendour, he commanded: “Yoke the steeds!”
Dark as rain-clouds was his chariot,
high as a mountain peak,
yoked with steeds of golden trappings,
whose neighing shook the heavens.
Their manes bore the ten auspicious curls,
their speed matched the coursing wind,
their voices rang like victory-drums,
heralding the Lord of Wealth.
Upon that celestial car Kubera set forth, eulogized by Gandharvas and Devas. Around him thronged a thousand Yakṣas, broad of chest, golden-hued, red-eyed, girded with swords and armed with clubs and spears—an army blazing like a storm of suns.
Coursing the firmament, they swept to Gandhamādana, their steeds seeming to draw the sky itself with their speed. The Pāṇḍavas beheld with awe that vast host, radiant as a second dawn.
Then upon the mountain’s crest he descended,
Vaiśravaṇa, Lord of Treasures,
seated upon the Pushpaka,
wrought by Viśvakarman’s hand.
Its colours glowed like the rainbow,
garlands shone upon his brow,
in his hands the noose, the bow, the sword—
his form effulgent as the rising sun.
Surrounded by Gandharvas, Apsarases, Yakṣas, and Rākṣasas, Kubera shone like Indra among the gods. The Pandavas, bowing low, joined their hands in reverence, acknowledging the guardian of the North.
And Bhīma—undaunted, though wounded in battle—stood gazing steadfastly at the Lord of Wealth, neither cowed nor diminished in spirit by his coming.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Kubera, the Lord of Treasures, borne on the shoulders of Yakṣas, beheld Bhīma still standing firm, bow in hand, eager for battle. Smiling, he turned to Dharmarāja and spoke with a voice deep and gracious:
“O son of Dharma, all creatures know thee as their protector, as one who guards righteousness. Therefore dwell here fearlessly with thy brothers upon this summit. Be not wroth with Vṛkodara. These Yakṣas and Rākṣasas were long ago doomed by destiny—thy brother was but the instrument. Their destruction was foreseen by the gods themselves. No shame is thine, nor guilt his. Indeed, I am pleased with Bhīma; even before I came hither, I rejoiced in this deed.”
Turning then to Bhīmasena, the lord of wealth said:
“O child of Kuntī, O mightiest of the Kurus, I take no offence. To please Kṛṣṇā thou hast, relying on thine arms alone, disregarded the guardians and struck down my hosts. For this I am not angered; rather, I am gladdened. By thy act a burden has been lifted from me: for know, O son of Pāṇḍu, I was bound by a curse of the great Ṛṣi Agastya. Through thy valour I am freed.”
At these words Yudhiṣṭhira, ever eager for truth, bowed low and said:
“O divine one, tell me—how came the high-souled Agastya to curse thee? What offence was wrought that the sage, burning with ascetic fire, should pronounce such doom upon thee and thine? It is a marvel that his wrath did not consume thee and thy hosts in that very hour.”
Kubera, Lord of Treasures, answered:
“Listen, O king, to the tale of my fault. Once, at Kuśasthalī, the gods held conclave. I set forth to join them, surrounded by grim-visaged Yakṣas, three hundred mahāpadmas strong, each bearing many weapons.
On my way I beheld the great Ṛṣi Agastya on the bank of the Yamunā, radiant with tapas, arms uplifted, face turned to the blazing sun. He shone like a mass of fire, burning in splendour. Yet my companion and friend, the lord of Rākṣasas, Maṇimān—deluded by folly, arrogance, and ignorance—committed a grievous outrage. In his blindness he defiled the crown of that great Maharṣi with his own excrement.
At once the sage, aflame with wrath, his fury scorching the quarters, spoke thus to me:
‘O Kubera, since in thy very presence this thy friend hath shown me such contempt,
so shall he, with all thy hosts, fall before a mortal’s arm.
And thou, O Lord of Treasures, grieving for thy slain companions,
shalt be freed from sin when that mortal appeareth before thee.
Yet if thy warriors’ sons remain obedient,
they shall be spared the weight of this curse.’
Thus was the doom decreed by Agastya, foremost among Ṛṣis. And now, O king, through Bhīma’s might that ancient curse is fulfilled, and I am released from its shadow.”