novelraw Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 22 - The Hermitage of King Vṛṣaparvan
Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 22 - The Hermitage of King Vṛṣaparvan
Then Śakra himself embraced me with delight.
“Well done, O Partha, lion-strong!
Thou hast avenged celestial wrong;
No god, no sage could do this deed,
But thou hast paid thy teacher’s meed.
Henceforth in battle none shall stand,
Against thy bow, thy mighty hand;
Rule the earth by Dharma’s way,
Till heaven calls thy soul one day.”
Thus praised by the lord of the celestials, I bowed my head, my task accomplished.
Arjuna continued:
Then the sovereign of the celestials, firmly confident and gracious, spoke to me, his words like thunder rolling across the heavens:
“All weapons of the gods, O son, are thine,
Bright with mantras, sealed divine.
No mortal born of earthly clay,
Can stand before thy arm in fray.
When thou art in the field of war,
Though Bhīṣma’s will be iron-bar,
Though Droṇa, Kṛpa, Karṇa rise,
They weigh but little in the skies.”
And so speaking, Śakra bestowed upon me treasures of heaven—this golden garland, fragrant and unfading; the mighty conch, Devadatta, whose roar shakes the worlds; the celestial mail, impenetrable, gleaming with the radiance of suns; the diadem that now crowns my head, set there by the hand of Indra himself; and garments and ornaments wrought by no mortal art, rare and wondrous.
Thus honoured in Indra’s abode, I dwelt with joy, learning among the Gandharvas and delighting in celestial song. But when the time drew near, the king of the gods, well-pleased, said unto me:
“O son of Dharma’s noble line,
The hour to part from heaven is thine.
Thy brothers call thee back once more,
To Gandhamādana’s mountain shore.”
So, remembering the grief born of the game of dice and the exile that bound us, I passed those five years in Śakra’s dwelling, until the summons of fate returned me here. Now behold me, O king, come again to stand beside thee on the heights of this sacred mountain.
Hearing these words, Yudhiṣṭhira, eldest of the sons of Pāṇḍu, his eyes moist with joy, answered me with a voice deep and glad:
“By fortune, Partha, heaven was won,
By fortune thou hast pleased each one—
The wielder of the trident dread,
The Lokapālas who thee led.
By fortune art thou come again,
By fortune eased is all our pain;
Already seems the earth subdued,
And Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s sons o’er-ruled.
Yet show us, brother, in the morn,
The weapons heavenly, god-born;
With these thou smot’st the demon race,
Now let our eyes their splendour trace.”
And to him I replied: “Tomorrow, at dawn’s first light, thou shalt see all the celestial weapons with which I struck down the hosts of the Nivātakavachas.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus did Arjuna recount his sojourn in heaven. And that night, upon the slopes of Gandhamādana, he rested among his brothers and Draupadī, joy lighting their hearts like fire newly kindled.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
When the night had passed, Yudhiṣṭhira the just arose with his brothers and performed the morning rites. Then he spoke unto Arjuna, delight of his mother’s heart:
“O son of Kuntī, child of fortune,
Show us now the arms of heaven,
Those with which the Dānavas fell,
And Indra’s foes were rent asunder.”
At his command, Dhanañjaya, powerful son of Pāṇḍu, purified by vow and ablution, set himself upon the earth as if seated on a chariot made of the mountain itself, with its base for the axle, and clustered bamboos for the socket-pole. Clad in celestial armour blazing with splendour, bearing the bow Gāṇḍīva and the roaring conch Devadatta, he began to reveal, one by one, the weapons given by the gods.
As he invoked them, the worlds trembled.
The earth shook with her trees; rivers foamed and the ocean heaved; rocks split asunder and the air grew still. The sun’s radiance dimmed, fire lost its flame, and even the Vedas ceased to resound in the hearts of the twice-born.
From within the earth, the hidden beings rose in terror—Nāgas, spirits, and subterranean tribes—hands joined, faces twisted with fear, crying out to Arjuna for mercy. The Brahmarṣis, Siddhas, and Maharṣis appeared, followed by mobile beings of heaven and earth. Foremost among the Devarṣis came, as did Yakṣas, Rākṣasas, Gandharvas, Garuḍas, and sky-ranging spirits.
Then the Great Sire himself was seen,
And the Lokapālas four, serene.
With him appeared the Lord of Bhūtas,
Mahādeva, crowned with serpents.
Vāyu, bearer of fragrance, showered blossoms upon the son of Kuntī. Gandharvas sang hymns sweet and resonant, and Apsarases danced in radiant beauty. In the midst of this splendour, Nārada the sage descended from the sky, his vīṇā in hand, his voice like nectar.
He spoke with gentle authority to Arjuna:
“Restrain, O Pārtha, thy god-born arms,
Never release them without cause.
Weapons divine must sleep in silence,
Else worlds may wither, realms collapse.
Only when pressed in battle dire,
Only when Dharma’s cause is bound,
Then may these thunderbolts be loosed,
Else ruin spreads through heaven and earth.”
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Then he turned to Yudhiṣṭhira, Ajātaśatru, saying:
“Thou too shalt see these arms again,
When foes are ground upon the plain.
Then shall the might of Pārtha blaze,
And fate shall burn in battle’s haze.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus restrained by Nārada and the immortals, Arjuna laid aside the celestial weapons. The gods and seers, returning each to their abode, departed as they had come. And the sons of Pāṇḍu, with Draupadī at their side, dwelt pleasantly in that forest, their hearts uplifted by the sight of heaven’s grace.
Janamejaya said:
“When that foremost of heroes, Dhanañjaya, accomplished in divine arms, returned from the abode of the slayer of Vṛtra, what did Pṛthā’s sons do, in company with their warlike brother?”
Vaiśampāyana replied:
In the company of Arjuna, peerless as Indra himself, the Pāṇḍavas sported freely amidst the pleasure-gardens of the lord of treasures upon that excellent and romantic mountain. They wandered at will through groves filled with trees of every kind, among jeweled cascades and celestial lakes, while Arjuna, ever intent upon arms, moved about with his bow in hand.
Through the grace of Vaiśravaṇa, the Yakṣa-lord, they had obtained such a dwelling as no mortals might dream of. Content, fearless, and undisturbed, they passed their days in happiness, caring little for the wealth of men. And thus four years glided by like a single night, and with the six that had gone before, their ten years of exile were fulfilled in peace.
When those days were complete, Bhīma, the son of the Wind, rose before Yudhiṣṭhira with Arjuna and the twins beside him, and spoke with fierce devotion.
“O king, we live for thy promise,
Holding back the wrath within.
But for thy word, my arm would fall
On Suyodhana and all his kin.
Eleven years in forests drear,
We have borne dishonour, grief, and loss.
One year remains, by stealth to pass,
Then shall our foes lie in the dust.
Why linger here in heavenly halls,
Where sorrow fades, and hearts grow still?
If comfort chains us, fame shall fade,
Like scent of flowers in the wind.
Rule thou the earth, O righteous king,
Win glory by the rite of fire.
Kuvera’s gifts thou mayst regain—
But now strike down the sons of sin.
None may withstand thee, thunder-armed;
Not Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Karṇa, Kr̥pa—
All fall beneath thy destined rule,
With Arjuna’s bow and Bhīma’s mace.”
Hearing these words, spoken with love and vehemence, Yudhiṣṭhira, magnanimous and versed in dharma and artha, bowed to Kuvera’s shining abode, and resolved to leave. He circled the palace and the mountain with reverence, gazing one last time upon the jeweled rivers, the sacred lakes, and the guardian rākṣasas who had watched over them.
Then he placed his palms upon the Gandhamādana peak, pure in heart, and prayed:
“O foremost of mountains, be witness today,
When my task is complete, my foes laid low,
And my kingdom regained through dharma’s might,
May I return to behold thee again,
Living in penance with a subdued soul.”
So speaking, the son of Dharma set forth with his brothers and the attendant Brāhmaṇas. Ghaṭotkaca, mighty among rākṣasas, bore them over the mountain torrents with his followers.
The sage Lomaśa, who had guided them with fatherly care, now departed with a cheerful heart to the heavens, while the great ṛṣi Arṣṭiṣeṇa blessed their journey. Alone, the Pāṇḍavas went forth, beholding on their way sacred tīrthas, hermitages of holy men, and mighty lakes glistening beneath the sky.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When the sons of Pāṇḍu left behind their radiant dwelling on the jeweled slopes of Gandhamādana—where cascades leapt, elephants of the eight quarters roamed, and the attendants of Kubera kept watch—happiness seemed to forsake them. Yet, soon their hearts lifted again when their eyes beheld the dazzling heights of Kailāsa, Kuvera’s own cherished mountain, rising like a mass of storm-clouds against the sky.
Through forests and valleys, over lion-dens and jagged causeways, past countless waterfalls, they pressed onward. They wandered through groves echoing with the cries of deer and birds, and came to lakes and caverns where at times by day and at times by night they rested like sages in hermitages. Having crossed the mountain of inconceivable grandeur, they reached the hermitage of King Vṛṣaparvan, holy and adorned with tapasvins.
The king received them with reverence, and in his abode, haunted by gods and ṛṣis, the Pāṇḍavas found cheer once again. There they recounted their wanderings, their hardships and triumphs in the mountains. After a night spent in peace, they moved on, and at last came to the vast jujube tree Viśāla, where they rested.
Then they journeyed to the tīrtha of Nārāyaṇa and there, beholding Kuvera’s lake, frequented by Siddhas and celestials, their grief dissolved like mist beneath the morning sun.
By the lake of the Lord, clear and bright,
The Pāṇḍavas laid aside their pain.
As ṛṣis in Nandana’s garden rest,
So did they dwell, pure and serene.
A month they remained at Badarī, worshipping and wandering, before turning their steps towards the kingdom of Suvāhu, lord of the Kirātas. Crossing the formidable ranges of Himālaya, they passed through the lands of the Cīnas, the Tuṣāras, the Daradas, and the Kulindas, realms rich with gems and snowbound rivers.
Hearing of their arrival, King Suvāhu came forth with joy to greet them. The sons of Kuru welcomed him as kin, and together they rested in his capital for a night, attended by their charioteers—Viśoka, Indrasena, and others—who rejoined them there.
Dismissing Ghaṭotkaca with his Rākṣasa hosts, they set their faces once more towards the southern mountains near the Yamunā. The slopes were streaked in grey and saffron, their peaks crowned with snow. There they found the great forest of Viśākayūpa, like unto the woodland of Citraratha, echoing with the cries of wild boars, deer, and birds. In that forest they made their home, and for one full year the sons of Pṛthā dwelt there, hunting for sport and solace.
It was in that place that Bhīma, wandering in distraction, stumbled into the cavern of a monstrous serpent, huge as death itself, who seized him in its coils.
Vṛkodara, the lion-hearted,
Struggled vainly in the grip of fate.
Then rose Yudhiṣṭhira, steadfast in dharma,
Protector of brothers, shield of his kin.
By his wisdom and puissance the serpent’s curse was broken, and Bhīma was freed from its crushing folds.
Thus, the twelfth year of exile dawned. Still blazing in tapas, still devoted to the art of archery, the Pāṇḍavas departed that forest and turned their steps to the edge of the great desert. Desiring to dwell by the sacred Sarasvatī, they journeyed to her banks and thence to the lake of Dvaitavana.
When they entered that holy wood, the ascetics of the region—men of deep meditation, who lived by austerity, by roots ground with stone, with only kuśa mats and water vessels for wealth—came forward to greet them.
The banks of the Sarasvatī were lined with sacred trees—fig, rudrākṣa, rohitaka, śirīṣa, bel, ingudā, karīra, pilu, and śamī—standing like guardians of dharma. And there, in that forest beloved of gods, Gandharvas, and Maharṣis, the sons of Pāṇḍu found peace once more, as if in the very dwelling-place of the celestials.
Janamejaya said:
“O sage, how could Bhīma, of immense prowess, the slayer of Yakṣas and Rākṣasas, the proud challenger of mighty Pulastya’s son, be struck with terror before a serpent? This Bhīma, who had the strength of ten thousand elephants, who once defied the hosts of Kuvera at the lotus lake—how was he brought low, dismayed and fearful? My heart burns with curiosity—tell me this wonder in detail.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Having reached the hermitage of King Vṛṣaparvan, the sons of Pāṇḍu roamed through forests of astonishing beauty, filled with wonders of the Himālaya. There, Vṛkodara wandered at will, bow in hand and scimitar at his side, his mighty frame filling the woods with power.
He came upon groves where Siddhas and Devarṣis had walked, where Apsarās sported, and where the air rang with bird-song—the chakora and the chakrabāka, the cuckoo, the bhr̥ṅgarāja, and the jibājibaka. Streams shone like polished sapphire, their banks alive with swans and white geese, shaded by towering deodars and fragrant sandal trees.
Bhīma hunted there as lions hunt, felling wild boars, antelopes, and buffaloes with unerring shafts. Sometimes he tore up trees by their roots, shaking the earth with his strength; sometimes he clapped his arms and roared like thunder, sending elephants and lions fleeing from their lairs.
His cry resounded through valleys vast,
The beasts of the forest fled in fear.
Mountains shook to his mighty tread,
The son of the Wind strode proud and clear.
In his wanderings he came to a cavern in a remote crag of the mountain. There lay a serpent, colossal as a hill, its scaled body filling the cave’s mouth. Its hide was mottled and yellow as turmeric, its cavernous mouth glowed copper-red, armed with dreadful fangs, and its eyes blazed with a fiery glare. The sound of its breath hissed like a storm, chilling the heart like the breath of Yama himself.
Its coils were mountains, its mouth a cave,
Its hiss the thunder of wrathful sky.
The sight of it made the boldest quake—
It seemed the shadow of death drawn nigh.
When Bhīma approached, the serpent grew enraged. With a sudden lunge, it seized him in its iron coils. Though Bhīma’s strength was like ten thousand elephants combined, though his arms were broad as pillars and his shoulders leonine, yet in the serpent’s grip he was helpless. For by an ancient boon, this serpent could bind even the mightiest, draining their strength at once.
Bhīma struggled furiously, his sinews straining, his breath roaring, yet he could not break free. Slowly, his body weakened, his limbs trembled, and his heart faltered. The unconquerable, the proud son of Vāyu, seemed powerless as a child in the coils of fate.
The hero who shook the world with his tread,
Whose might made the mountains quake with dread—
Now bound, subdued in a serpent’s clasp,
Lay trembling, caught in destiny’s grasp.
Bhīmasena, struggling in the serpent’s coils, felt his breath shortened and his strength ebbing away. Astonished at the creature’s power, he spoke with labored voice:
“O mighty serpent, who art thou, and what wilt thou do with me? Know me to be Bhīmasena, son of Pāṇḍu, next in birth to Yudhiṣṭhira the just. Endued with the strength of ten thousand elephants, I have slain lions, tigers, buffaloes, and elephants, and routed Rākṣasas, Piśācas, and serpents in battle. Yet I lie bound, powerless in thy coils. Tell me—hast thou some hidden magic, or a boon, that thou hast overcome me? Surely the strength of men is but a delusion, for today my arms are baffled by thy grip.”
The serpent tightened his folds, leaving only Bhīma’s arms free, and replied in a voice deep as thunder:
“Fortunate am I, O Pāṇḍava, for the gods have sent thee today as my food, after long hunger. Yet hear who I am before destiny is fulfilled. I am Nahusha, son of Ayu, once king among kings and sovereign of heaven itself, sprung from the same ancestral line as thine. But, intoxicated with pride, I affronted the Brāhmaṇas, and by the curse of Agastya I fell from Indra’s throne and was hurled to earth, taking this serpent form.
Even in my fall, I begged the sage for release. Out of compassion he said: ‘When one versed in the relation of the soul to the Supreme Being can answer thy questions, then shalt thou be freed.’ Until then, I must dwell as a devourer of men, with this power—that whomever I seize, however mighty, shall lose all strength at once. Thus have the high-souled seers ordained my fate.”
Bhīma, still bound, spoke in a subdued tone, his pride tempered by suffering:
“I do not reproach myself, O serpent, nor burn with anger. For in joy and sorrow, sometimes man’s exertion prevails, and sometimes it fails. Who can overrule destiny? Destiny is supreme; self-effort is but a tool. Struck down by fate, my strength lies broken, and here I fall without apparent cause.
Yet it is not my own death that grieves me most, but the plight of my brothers. Wandering through this perilous Himālaya, they will seek me, distraught. If they hear I am slain, despair will crush them. Arjuna alone may endure, for none—neither gods nor demons—can subdue him. But Yudhiṣṭhira, steadfast yet gentle, Nakula and Sahadeva, young and valiant, and above all, our mother Kuntī, whose hopes rested in me—they will sink in sorrow. My fall, more than my death, will wound their hearts.”
Thus spoke Vṛkodara, sighing deep,
While coils of fate around him wound.
The son of Wind, who shook the earth,
Lay helpless, pressed against the ground.