novelraw Arc 8 - Draupadī Haraṇa Parva Chapter 1 - Kṛṣṇa Feeds the Universe
Arc 8 - Draupadī Haraṇa Parva Chapter 1 - Kṛṣṇa Feeds the Universe
Vaiśampāyana said:
One day, O king, the sage Durvāsā of terrible austerities, accompanied by ten thousand disciples, came to the forest-dwelling of the sons of Pāṇḍu. He had chosen his moment carefully, for Yudhiṣṭhira and his brothers were at ease, and Draupadī, the princess of Pāñcāla, had just concluded her meal and was resting.
The righteous king Yudhiṣṭhira, ever reverent towards Brahmanas, rose with joined palms, accompanied by his mother Kuntī, to welcome the guest. Offering seats and words of courtesy, he bowed and said: “Return, O holy one, after performing thy ablutions, and then accept our hospitality.” Thus addressed, the sage of fierce vow went with his multitude of pupils to the river to bathe.
Meanwhile, Draupadī, devoted to her lords, was seized by anxiety. “How,” she thought, “shall I feed so many ascetics, when the Akṣaya Pātra remains empty, for I myself have eaten?”
In her helplessness, she turned her heart to Kṛṣṇa, the eternal refuge.
O Kṛṣṇa, dark as the lotus leaf,
Slayer of Kaṁsa, dispeller of grief,
Infinite One, whose arms uphold,
The worlds, the scriptures, dharma old.
Thou art the source, the flame, the sea,
The boundless self, the mystery.
When men are helpless, Thee they call,
O Govinda, refuge of all.
As once thou saved me, bound and shamed,
From Duhśāsana’s hands defiled, defamed,
So now protect, O lotus-eyed,
The sons of Pāṇḍu and their bride.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus did the princess pray, and behold, O king, Keśava himself appeared. Leaving the bed of Rukmiṇī who slept at his side, Hari of immeasurable might came to that hermitage. Seeing him, Draupadī bowed, her fear transformed to joy, and told him all.
But Kṛṣṇa, smiling, said: “I am hungry, O Kṛṣṇā. Give me food, and then let us think of the rest.”
Bewildered, Draupadī answered: “Lord, the vessel of the Sun remains inexhaustible only till I have eaten. Today I have already taken my meal; it stands empty.”
Then the lotus-eyed said gently: “Bring it to me.”
When she placed it in his hands, the Lord beheld at its rim a single grain of rice, a fragment of leaf. He swallowed it and uttered:
May the Lord of Sacrifice be fed,
May Hari’s self be comforted.
If I am full, the worlds are full—
Let hunger’s fire be rendered null.
Vaiśampāyana said:
By that act of the Supreme, the ascetics of Durvāsā, bathing in the river, suddenly felt their bellies heavy and their throats choked with fullness. Gazing at one another in wonder, they said: “How shall we eat now? We are filled, though no morsel has passed our lips!”
Fear seized them, and they spoke to their preceptor: “What is to be done? If we return without eating, Yudhiṣṭhira will be angered. If we eat not, we dishonour him.” Durvāsā, recalling the Pāṇḍavas’ might and their devotion to Hari, said in dread: “Let us flee at once! Their wrath could consume us like fire a heap of dry reeds.”
Thus, terrified, the Muni and his host fled in all directions.
When Bhīma went to summon them, he found no trace; only the whispers of other ascetics who told of their sudden departure. Returning, he reported to Yudhiṣṭhira. The sons of Pāṇḍu, uneasy, feared the curse of Durvāsā.
At that moment, the Lord Kṛṣṇa revealed himself again and spoke with gentle assurance:
“Fear not, O sons of Pṛthā. That wrathful sage has already gone, afraid of your power. Virtuous men never suffer. By Draupadī’s faith and my presence, your peril is past.”
The brothers, with Draupadī, bowed with folded hands. “As a boat rescues from mid-ocean, so hast thou saved us, O Keśava. Return now, O Lord, to Dvārakā.”
Thus dismissed, Kṛṣṇa departed; and the Pāṇḍavas, their hearts eased, roamed the forest in peace, ever attended by Draupadī.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus did the sons of Pāṇḍu, mighty as Indra, spend their days in the forest of Kāmyaka, ranging like lions, hunting for the sustenance of the many Brahmanas who accompanied them. One day, eager for game, the brothers went forth in different directions, leaving behind their princess at the hermitage, protected by the sage Triṇavindu and by their priest Dhaumya.
It so happened, O king, that Jayadratha, son of Vṛddhakṣatra, lord of Sindhu and Sauvīra, was passing through that very forest with a great retinue. Clad in splendid raiment, his heart intent on seeking a bride in the land of Śālva, he halted amidst the woods of Kāmyaka. There, before his eyes, shone Draupadī—daughter of Drupada and wife of the Pāṇḍavas—standing at the threshold of her hermitage.
Like a streak of lightning flashing amidst dark clouds, like a flame of sacrifice illumining the night, she stood—her beauty filling the forest with radiance. Seeing her, the princes wondered in hushed awe.
“Is this a goddess strayed to earth?
Or a nymph of celestial birth?
A daughter of the storm or sea,
Or some divine illusory?”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Their eyes drank in her splendour. And Jayadratha, struck as if by a thunderbolt, was consumed with desire. Turning to his minister Kotika, he whispered with fevered breath: “Find who this woman is. If she will be mine, I need seek no other bride. I care not for Śālva’s princess—this jewel is enough.”
So saying, Jayadratha dispatched Kotika. The minister approached Draupadī with false courtesy, like a jackal venturing before a tigress.
“O lady bright, who art thou here,
Alone, serene, without a fear?
Flame-like thou standest, radiant, tall,
As if a goddess walks the hall.
Art thou a Yakṣī of the night,
A Dānava’s or Nāga’s might?
Or heavenly nymph from Vidhātṛ’s skies,
Who blinds the forest with her eyes?
If mortal born, then tell us true,
Thy father’s name, thy husband too.
For here are kings of war and fame,
And Jayadratha—the loftiest name.
Twelve princes guard his banner high,
As Maruts throng around the sky.
His brothers brave and nobles near,
All blaze like fires of altar clear.
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Tell us, O lady, be thou kind—
What house, what lineage, what bind?”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus spoke Kotika, reciting the glory of Jayadratha and his host, as though his master were Indra himself moving with the Maruts. Yet his words were but a cloak for the lust that burned in the Sindhu king’s heart.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
The princess of Pāñcāla, questioned thus by the envoy of Jayadratha, gently lowered her eyes. Loosening her hold on the branch of the Kadamba tree, she adjusted her silken garments, and with modest grace replied. Though she felt it unseemly to converse with a stranger in her solitude, she spoke, compelled by circumstance, her voice calm and dignified.
“It is not meet, O prince,
That one like me should speak with men alone,
For the path of women is guarded by modesty,
And solitude is not for words with strangers.
Yet, since thou hast addressed me here,
And no elder stands between,
Hear now, as courtesy demands,
The truth of who I am.
I am born of Drupada, king of Pāñcāla,
Men call me Kṛṣṇā, daughter of fire,
And the five heroes of Kuru’s race—
Are my lords and protectors.
Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma the just,
Bhīma, whose arms are like iron maces,
Arjuna, peerless with the bow,
And the twins, Nakula and Sahadeva,
Sons of fair Madri—all are mine.
They dwell not here idly,
But even now are gone abroad—
The eldest east, the strong Bhīma south,
Arjuna west with his bow unstrung,
And the twins, bright as the Aśvins,
Toward the northern path.
Therefore, O prince, descend from thy chariot,
Dismiss thy retinue and thy steeds.
Rest here awhile,
For my lords cherish guests like the gods.
The son of Dharma himself
Will honour thee with fitting welcome,
And joy shall mark his face at thy arrival.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus did the daughter of Drupada, her face radiant as the moon, address the messenger of Jayadratha. Ever mindful of her husbands’ devotion to dharma, she spoke not harshly, but with noble restraint, hoping to turn desire into courtesy and intrusion into the sanctity of hospitality. Then, with gentle bearing, she withdrew into her cottage, leaving Kotika astonished at her beauty and her words.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Kotika returned to the princes of Sauvīra and recounted all that had passed—how Draupadī had revealed herself as the daughter of Drupada, the illustrious wife of the sons of Pṛthā. Hearing this, Jayadratha, seized by passion, spoke with burning words:
“Her voice alone has pierced my heart,
Her beauty leaves all women pale.
Since once I gazed on Kṛṣṇā’s form,
All else seems worthless, weak, and frail.
Is she a goddess? Is she real?
No mortal woman shines so bright.
She must be mine—this jewel of flame,
My heart is captive to her light.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Kotika, reckless of dharma, whispered back: “This is no nymph but Draupadī herself—the fire-born daughter of Drupada, beloved of the five Pāṇḍavas. Yet, O king, if she pleases thee, take her to Sauvīra by force.”
Then Jayadratha, blinded by lust, set aside all prudence. With six attendants, he entered that holy hermitage, like a wolf straying into the lion’s den. Approaching Draupadī, he greeted her with honeyed speech:
“Hail to thee, noble lady! Are thy husbands well, and those elders and kinsmen for whose welfare thou carest always?”
Draupadī, mistress of courtesy, replied without fear:
“Kuntī’s son Yudhiṣṭhira, his brothers, and myself—all are well, O king. And how fares it with thee? Are thy armies strong, thy revenues abundant, thy people content? Dost thou govern Sindhu and Sauvīra with justice and strength? Accept water for thy feet and this seat of welcome. For thy train I offer fifty animals, and my lord himself, the son of Dharma, will present venison and game in plenty. Such is our way with guests.”
But Jayadratha, rejecting her noble words, bared his desire:
“All is well with me, fair one—
But better still with thee beside.
Why cling to men cast down in shame,
Whose wealth and kingdom both have died?
When fortune smiles, a wife should stay,
When darkness falls, she walks away.
The sons of Pāṇḍu have lost their might—
Their exile endless, their power slight.
Come, O beauty, ride my car,
Rule Sindhu, Sauvīra, lands afar.
Forsake the poor, embrace thy fate—
A queen beside me, crowned in state.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
At these vile words, the brow of Draupadī darkened, her eyes narrowing in wrath. Stepping back, she turned aside, her face furrowed with scorn. Yet, composed in dignity, she spoke with biting reproach:
“Shame on such speech, O blinded king!
Guard thy tongue, restrain thy will.
Seek not to soil a chaste one’s name,
Or reap a harvest dark with ill.
The sons of Pṛthā are lions all,
Thy words shall cost thee dear, beware!
Think not their exile makes them weak—
Their wrath burns fiercer than the air.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus with firm rebuke did Draupadī check the advances of the Sindhu king. Yet, expecting the swift return of her lords, she endured, weaving words of courtesy and delay, seeking by her speech to beguile Jayadratha until the Pāṇḍavas arrived.
Vaiśampāyana said:
The daughter of Drupada, though already resplendent in beauty, shone yet more in anger. Her cheeks flushed crimson, her brows knit, her great eyes blazing like fire. She rebuked the ruler of Sauvīra with sharp and piercing words.
“Shame on thy tongue, O blinded king,
That slanders heroes without peer!
Those lions of men, each like Indra,
Thou callest weak—beware, for fear!
Thou dreamest of Yudhiṣṭhira’s fall,
As one who dares, with childish hand,
To pluck a tusk from a mountain-elephant,
Leader of herd in Himālaya’s land.
Thou wakest Bhīma, sleeping still,
As fools would rouse a lion’s roar;
Or trample blind on cobras twain,
And think to pass alive once more.
Like reed that fruits but only to perish,
Like crab conceiving its own decay,
Thou seekest to seize a woman guarded
By warriors fierce as gods in fray.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus scolded, Jayadratha still burned with desire. “I know their prowess,” he said, “yet I do not fear. We are princes of noble line, lords of Sindhu and Sauvīra. Thou shalt not escape us with words alone. Mount my chariot, proud one, or beg my mercy.”
“Thinkest thou me helpless, O king?
Nay, I am guarded by arms divine.
Even Śakra could not tear me away
From the bow of Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa’s sign.
When Dhanañjaya lets fly his shafts,
Thick as locusts darkening sky,
Thou shalt repent thy impious thought
As his arrows pierce thy breast and thigh.
When Bhīma comes, with mace uplifted,
And Nakula, Sahadeva too,
Thy pride will sink, thy breath will fail,
And grief eternal follow you.
Never have I betrayed my lords—
In thought, in word, in deed I stand.
By that truth, I shall behold thee,
Defeated, dragged by Pṛthā’s band.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus she thundered, her eyes like flames, her words sharp as arrows. Seeing the princes advancing to seize her, Draupadī cried aloud: “Defile me not by your touch!” In fear and anger she called upon her preceptor Dhaumya.
But Jayadratha, mad with passion, seized her garment. She struck him with all her strength, and the king fell to the earth like a tree cut from its root. Rising again, he grasped her fiercely; she panted, struggling for breath. At last, despite her resistance, the wretch dragged her into his chariot.
Before entering, Draupadī bowed at Dhaumya’s feet. And the sage, walking beside, admonished Jayadratha with words of fire:
“O king of Sindhu, this is no act of Kṣatriya dharma. To carry away a princess without conquering her protectors is shame and sin. Know surely, when the sons of Pāṇḍu return, thou shalt reap the bitter fruit of this wicked deed!”
So saying, Dhaumya followed the chariot, walking amidst Jayadratha’s army, while Draupadī, fire-born and furious, was borne away against her will.
Vaiśampāyana said:
The daughter of Drupada, crimson with anger, her great eyes burning like twin flames, bent her brows in scorn. She spoke fiercely against the Sauvīra king, rebuking his folly with words sharp as arrows.
Draupadī’s Wrath
“Art thou not shamed, O witless king,
To mock those lions, fierce in war?
Each like Indra in strength and fame,
Who rout Yakṣas and rākṣasas afar?
Thou dream’st of conquering Yudhiṣṭhira,
As if one plucked with puny hand
The tusk from a tusker, mountain-huge,
Roaming free in Himālaya’s land.
Thou wakest Bhīma, the lion asleep,
To snatch a hair from his terrible face.
Or trample blind on cobras twain,
Whose fangs spit death in venomous grace.
Bamboo and reed bear fruit to perish,
So too the crab conceives its end.
Thus wilt thou fall, O blinded fool,
Who dares to seize what heroes defend!”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Jayadratha answered, puffed with pride:
Jayadratha’s Boast
“I know their might, yet fear them not,
For we are princes, high of birth.
Of noble clans and royal marks,
We look on Pāṇḍus as men of dearth.
Mount my chariot, proud one, yield!
Or beg for mercy at my knee.
Thy words are wind—thou canst not foil
The will of Sindhu’s lord and me.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Draupadī, daughter of fire, flung back his offer with unshaken pride:
“Even Śakra himself could never
Steal the wife of sons of Pṛthā.
When Arjuna rides with Kṛṣṇa beside,
No force of men may shake their law.
When Gāṇḍīva roars and arrows swarm,
Thick as locusts in summer skies,
Thou shalt repent thy wicked thought
As shafts rain fire into thine eyes.
When Bhīma storms with mace in hand,
When Nakula, Sahadeva burn,
Their venom fierce shall scatter thee,
And grief eternal be thy turn.
Never false in thought or deed
Have I been to my warrior lords.
By that truth, I soon shall see
Thee vanquished, bound by Pṛthā’s swords.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus did Kṛṣṇā thunder, yet the wretch advanced. Seeing them stretch their hands towards her, she cried out:
“Defile me not by your touch!”
In fear and anger she called upon her preceptor Dhaumya. But Jayadratha, driven mad by passion, seized her upper garment. With sudden force she struck him away, and he fell to the ground like a tree severed from its root.
Rising again, he grasped her violently. Breathless, struggling, Draupadī was dragged toward his chariot. Yet before mounting, she bowed at Dhaumya’s feet. The sage followed, his voice resounding with righteous warning:
“O Jayadratha, heed the law of Kṣatriyas! None may bear away a lady without first conquering her protectors. Surely, this vile deed shall bear bitter fruit when thou meetest the sons of Pāṇḍu in wrath, with Yudhiṣṭhira the just at their head.”
So saying, Dhaumya walked amidst the Sindhu army, following the fire-born princess as she was borne away by the sinful king.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Meanwhile those foremost of warriors, having ranged through the forest and slain countless deer and buffaloes, met together again. As they returned, Yudhiṣṭhira, ever mindful, noticed strange omens: the cries of birds, the restless flight of beasts, the trembling of the forest itself.
He said to his brothers:
“These dissonant cries, this terror in the creatures—all point to hostile hands in our dwelling. My heart burns, O Bhīma, O Dhanañjaya. Like a lake bereft of its serpent by Garuḍa, like a vessel drained by thirsting men, so seems to me our forest now.”
They turned their chariots at once, steeds racing like the storm. As they went, a jackal howled from the left, uttering sounds like human speech. Yudhiṣṭhira, pondering, said:
“This voice of the mean beast foretells the Kurus’ treachery. They have struck again at us.”
Thus forewarned, they sped on.