Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 7 - Draupadi-Satyabhama Samvada and Ghosa Yatra Parva Chapter 5 - Durvāsas comes to Hastinapur

Janamejaya said:

“After delivering Duryodhana from the Gandharvas, what did the mighty sons of Pāṇḍu do in the forest, O sage? Tell me this.”

Vaiśampāyana replied:

Once, as king Yudhiṣṭhira lay asleep in the woods of Dvaita, a strange vision came to him. In his dream, a band of deer appeared before him—eyes moist with tears, their slender bodies trembling. With joined palms uplifted, they stood as suppliants.

The son of Dharma, compassionate even in sleep, addressed them gently:

“Who are you, O timid ones? What is your sorrow? Speak without fear, for the sons of Kuntī listen with compassion.”

Then those deer, the remnant of their herds, replied with voices broken by grief:

“O king, we are the few survivors of countless kin slain by thy brothers’ arrows. The rangers of the forest have been thinned, and we remain only like the last seeds after harvest. If thou dost continue to dwell here, O mighty monarch, we shall perish utterly. Have mercy, therefore, and remove thy camp, that our kind may yet increase.”

Hearing this lament of the wild creatures, Yudhiṣṭhira’s heart was pierced with sorrow. The king, ever intent upon the welfare of all beings, answered in the dream:

“So be it. Out of pity for you, I shall act as you have spoken.”

When dawn broke, the son of Dharma rose and recalled the vision. His heart heavy with compassion, he gathered his brothers and said:

“O Bhīma, O Arjuna, O sons of Mādrī—last night the deer themselves came before me in dream, lamenting their destruction. We have hunted and fed upon them for a year and eight months. They are now but remnants, trembling like stalks after harvest. Shall not compassion guide us? Let us, therefore, quit this forest and repair to the holy Kamyaka, fair with lakes and groves, rich in herds, standing at the head of the desert near Lake Trinavindu. There shall we dwell peacefully, and the creatures here may revive.”

Thus resolved, the Pāṇḍavas, ever obedient to Dharma, departed swiftly. Accompanied by Brahmanas, ascetics, and their followers, led by Indrasena and other attendants, they journeyed along roads trodden by travellers, lined with fertile fields and clear waters.

At length they beheld once more the sacred forest of Kamyaka, radiant with ascetic merit, fragrant with blossoms, and abounding in wild beasts. And as the righteous pass into heaven, so did the sons of Pāṇḍu, surrounded by holy Brahmanas, re-enter that forest, making it their abode.

Dwelling in the forest, O bull of the Bharatas, the high-souled Pāṇḍavas spent eleven long years in misery. Though born to happiness and sovereign power, they lived now on fruits and roots, brooding over their calamity.

Yudhiṣṭhira, mighty-armed and ever mindful of dharma, lay awake many nights, remembering with grief that the exile of his brothers was born of his own folly at the dice. Like one pierced with a lance, he sighed heavily, recalling the cruel taunts of Karṇa. Though wrath burned within him, he restrained it for the sake of his vow.

Arjuna, Bhīma, the sons of Mādrī, and fair Draupadī, gazing upon their brother-king, felt pain sharper than their own hunger. But as the time of exile drew nearer to its end, hope and rage mingled within them. They hardened their bodies and hearts like warriors shaping weapons of war.

It was then that the great Ṛṣi Vyāsa, son of Satyavatī, came to see them. Beholding his grandsires gaunt, clad in bark, living on the wilderness’ yield, compassion stirred his heart.

Yudhiṣṭhira rose swiftly to receive him, bowed low, and after honouring him with due rites, sat before him eager for counsel. Vyāsa, beholding their plight, spoke with a voice heavy with pity:

“O son of Dharma, men do not attain great joy without hardship. Happiness and misery alternate like day and night. None in this world tastes unbroken bliss. A wise man, knowing this truth, is not overjoyed at fortune nor crushed by sorrow. He enjoys what comes, and bears what comes—just as the sower of seed must endure the season’s turns.

Know, O king, there is nothing superior to tapas. By austerity is won every fruit. By truth, by restraint of anger, by justice, by mastery of senses, by absence of malice, by purity and guilelessness—by these is a man cleansed. The fruit of deeds here is reaped in another birth. Therefore, restrain thyself, practise vows, and give in charity. For one who gives in humility, with cheerful spirit, to a worthy soul, is lifted to happiness.”

Yudhiṣṭhira then asked the sage:

“Of the two, O revered one—charity and asceticism—which is greater, and which harder of practice?”

Vyāsa replied:

“O child, charity is harder than austerity. Wealth is won with toil, and men cling to it fiercely. Some brave the ocean, some the forest, some bend their backs to plough and cattle, some sell themselves in service—all for wealth. To part with it freely is the hardest of acts. Therefore, giving is supreme, greater than all vows.

But hear this—wealth ill-gotten brings no fruit. A gift made with unclean hands cannot lift the giver from rebirth. Yet even a morsel, given at the right time, in purity, to a worthy man, yields inexhaustible merit. Thus was it of old with Mudgala, who by giving but a single drona of grain attained eternal fruit.”

Vyāsa said:

In Kurukṣetra, O king, there lived a sage named Mudgala, pure of heart, truthful, guileless, and master of his senses. He lived by the śila and uñchha modes of life, gathering stray grains in the fields like a pigeon pecking crumbs. Yet, though his means were meagre, his heart was vast, for he entertained guests, performed the isti sacrifices, and shared whatever he had.

Every fortnight he and his wife and son lived on but a drona of corn. Whatever remained after feeding gods, guests, and Brahmanas, he accepted cheerfully. On days sacred to the moon, even the lord of the heavens, Indra, came invisibly to partake of his offering.

And lo, whenever a guest arrived, the corn he had collected multiplied mysteriously. Such was the power of his pure spirit in giving, that his meagre store became inexhaustible, feeding hundreds of Brahmanas with grace.

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But then came Durvāsas, the terrible sage,

His body smeared with dust, his hair unbound,

Clad in rags, eyes blazing, speech harsh as thunder,

Testing the steadfastness of Mudgala’s soul.

Hungry and fierce, Durvāsas consumed all the food placed before him. Unsated, he smeared his limbs with the scraps and went away.

Again he came, season after season, demanding food, devouring it all, leaving none for the sage or his family. Yet Mudgala, unmoved, collected corn anew, bore hunger without complaint, and never let anger, guile, or shame touch his heart.

Six times did Durvāsas thus test him, and six times Mudgala remained unshaken, like the Himalaya amidst storms.

At last Durvāsas, well-pleased, spoke to him:

“O Mudgala, there is none on earth like thee!

Hunger breaks patience, craving destroys righteousness,

The tongue entices, the mind is restless,

Yet thou hast mastered them all.

Self-restraint, justice, fortitude, mercy—

All virtues dwell in thee as in a holy shrine.

Thy deeds resound in heaven; the gods themselves proclaim thy glory.

Thou shalt ascend to the blessed worlds in this very body.”

Even as he spoke, a divine messenger descended in a radiant chariot, yoked with swans and cranes, adorned with bells, fragrant with heavenly scents, resplendent with painted scenes, and moving at will through the skies.

“O sage,” said the messenger, “enter this car. By thy gifts, by thy vows, by thy unwavering soul, thou hast won heaven. Ascend, O Mudgala, to the regions of the gods!”

But Mudgala, steadfast and wise, did not leap with joy. Instead he questioned:

“Tell me, O messenger of the celestials—

What is heaven? Who dwells there?

What joys are theirs, and what sorrows?

What austerities win that realm, and what purposes are fulfilled therein?

For it is said: even to walk seven steps with the righteous is friendship.

By that bond I ask thee—speak truly, speak what is for my good.

Having heard, I shall choose my path.”

The divine messenger spoke:

“O sage of pure vows, why dost thou hesitate? Having earned heaven through austerity and charity, why dost thou yet deliberate like a doubting soul? Hear then of that world above the earth, where virtue’s fruit is gathered.

There rise shining regions, lofty and vast, threaded with resplendent paths, traversed by celestial cars. None may enter there who are faithless, deceitful, or unpurified by sacrifice. Only men of virtue—self-restrained, guileless, free from malice, steadfast in charity—ascend to those radiant worlds. There dwell heroes fallen in battle, righteous sacrificers, sages, the Gandharvas and Apsaras, the Sādhyas and Dharmas, all shining in their own light.

There stands golden Meru, thirty-three thousand yojanas high, crowned with groves divine—Nandana and others—where the blessed sport forever. No hunger, no thirst, no decay, no grief, nor fear resides there. Every fragrance is sweet, every breeze delightful, every sound charming to ear and heart. Garlands never fade, dust never soils, sweat nor stench nor weariness exists. Such is heaven, wrought by merit, bestowed by deeds.

Higher still are the sanctuaries of Brahmā, where dwell the Ribhus, gods of the very gods—unfading, free of desire, beyond joy and sorrow, untouched by dissolution. Even the celestials covet their state.

Thus, O Mudgala, is heaven’s bliss. Thou hast earned it by thine unwavering charity. Ascend, therefore, and rejoice.”

But then the messenger spoke further, lowering his voice:

“Yet know also its imperfection. For in heaven none may act anew. One may only reap what was sown before. When merit is spent, the blessed must fall, cast down to earth like birds with broken wings. Their fading garlands foretell their descent; fear and regret invade their hearts. Having tasted joy beyond measure, they suffer the pang of losing it. Even Brahmā’s world is not free of this fall.

Yet those who descend return to human birth, endowed with fortune proportionate to their merit. If wisdom awakens in them, they ascend higher; if folly clings, they are bound once more. Thus is heaven transient, a shining fruit that ripens only to be consumed.”

Hearing this, Mudgala reflected long. At last he spoke with calm clarity:

“I bow to thee, O messenger divine. Yet I seek not joys that fade, nor heavens where garlands wither. What profit in a bliss that ends in anguish? I shall strive for that supreme abode where there is no grief, no fear, no fall. Tell me of that realm beyond defect.”

The messenger replied:

“Above Brahmā’s heaven lies the eternal seat of Viṣṇu, Para Brahman itself—pure, luminous, changeless. None bound to desire or pride, none stained by anger or envy, none distracted by sense-objects may enter there. Only they who are free from attachment, steadfast in contemplation, absorbed in Yoga, reach that imperishable state.”

Vyāsa concluded:

Hearing this, Mudgala dismissed the messenger with honour, and turned inward. Praise and blame became alike to him; gold and clay, a stone and a jewel, shone the same in his sight. He dwelt ever in meditation, his mind anchored in Brahman. By knowledge and detachment he transcended birth and death, attaining that supreme emancipation which is eternal and unfailing.

Therefore, O son of Kuntī, grieve not over exile or loss. Like Mudgala, bear adversity with patience. Misery and joy revolve like the rim of a wheel about the axle. When the thirteenth year is ended, thou shalt regain thy kingdom, as once enjoyed by thy sire and grandsire. Let thy heart’s fever be stilled.”

So saying, the sage Vyāsa departed, returning to his hermitage for austerities.

Janamejaya said:

“O Brāhmaṇa, while the high-souled sons of Pṛthā dwelt in the forest, sustaining themselves by the gifts of the Sun, conversing with ascetics and feeding Brāhmaṇas before Draupadī herself partook of food, how did wicked Duryodhana and his brothers, guided by Karṇa, Śakuni, and Duḥśāsana, deal with them? Tell me, O sage, what ill design was wrought.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

“Then, O king, when Duryodhana heard that the sons of Pāṇḍu, though exiled, lived happily in the woods, surrounded by Ṛṣis, his heart burned with envy. With Karṇa, Duḥśāsana, and Śakuni he schemed ever new ways to bring them harm.

At that very time the fierce ascetic Durvāsā, unpredictable in wrath, came to Hastināpura with ten thousand disciples, each like blazing fire. Duryodhana, beholding him, rose with humility, bowing like a servant, washing his feet, serving him by day and night, awaiting each command in fear of the sage’s curse.

Sometimes Durvāsā demanded food at once, ‘Quickly! I am hungry!’ At times he returned late from the river, saying coldly, ‘I have no appetite tonight.’ At midnight he would awaken, crying, ‘Prepare a feast for us now!’ Then, after the meals were readied, he would disdain them, leave them untouched, and depart in silence.

Thus he tested Duryodhana, watching his temper, his patience, his false humility. But the prince never showed anger nor weariness. Pleased, Durvāsā at last spoke with softened voice:

‘O Kuru prince, thou hast pleased me. Ask a boon. Whatever desire lies nearest thy heart—if it be not opposed to Dharma—shall be granted thee.’

Then, O king, Duryodhana’s heart leapt with joy, for he had already conspired with Karṇa and Duḥśāsana what boon he should beg. With hands folded he said:

‘O holy one, my elder brother Yudhiṣṭhira, most righteous of men, dwells in the forest with his brothers and Draupadī. Be thou their guest, as thou hast been mine. Yet, O Brāhmaṇa, visit them at that time when the princess of Pāñcāla, after feeding the Brāhmaṇas, her husbands, and herself, lies down to rest. Then, O sage, do thou, with thy ten thousand disciples, demand food of her.’

Durvāsā replied with terrible simplicity:

‘Even so shall it be, for thy satisfaction.’

Thus promising, the dread ascetic departed as he had come. Duryodhana, seeing his plan fulfilled, rejoiced as one who had gained the world. Taking Karṇa by the hand, he said with delight:

‘All our desires are attained! Draupadī and the sons of Pāṇḍu are doomed to fall under Durvāsā’s fiery wrath.’

And Karṇa, smiling cruelly, answered:

‘By fortune thy wish is secured. Already thy enemies sink into a sea of peril, from which none may escape. The sons of Pāṇḍu, by their own hand, have summoned their ruin. They cannot withstand the fire of Durvāsā’s curse. Let us rejoice, for destruction now hovers over them.’

Thus conspiring, the Kauravas returned to their homes, their hearts drunk with malice, while destiny, unseen, prepared to shield the sons of Pāṇḍu.”