novelraw Arc 1 - Pandava-Pravesa and Kichak-Vadha Parva Chapter 2 - Kīcaka’s Arrogance
Arc 1 - Pandava-Pravesa and Kichak-Vadha Parva Chapter 2 - Kīcaka’s Arrogance
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Thus, living in disguise, the mighty sons of Prithā passed ten months in Matsya’s city. But Draupadī, daughter of Yajñasena, though born to be served by others, endured great misery waiting upon Sudeshnā. Gentle in speech and conduct, she pleased the queen and the women of the inner apartments.
As the year drew to its close, Kīcaka, commander of Virāṭa’s forces, beheld her. She moved like a goddess, radiant as the daughter of the celestials. Stricken at once by Kāma’s arrows, he burned with desire and approached his sister Sudeshnā.”
Kīcaka said:
“Who is this maid of goddess grace,
With moonlike brow and lotus face?
She walks like Lakṣmī come to earth,
She maddens me, she wakes my thirst.
Let her rule me and all I own,
In palace wide, on golden throne.
My halls with viands, steeds, and wine
Shall be, O sister, wholly thine.
She is no slave to braid thy hair,
She is a queen beyond compare.
Bring her, let her be my bride,
And in my palace let her abide.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“After this, like a jackal creeping toward a lioness, Kīcaka himself approached Draupadī, and spoke in a low, coaxing voice.”
Kīcaka said:
“Who art thou, lady of swan-like speech,
Whose eyes like lotus-petals reach?
Thy beauty burns me like a fire,
Thy glance has kindled my desire.
Lakṣmī or Bhūti, Hri or Śrī—
Which of the goddesses art thou to me?
Thy breasts like lotus-buds inflame,
Thy waist, thy hips, thy moonlike frame.
Quench this fire that eats my soul,
Be rain to me, my senses’ goal.
All wives I have I cast away,
On thee alone my heart will stay.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Draupadī, ever self-possessed, spoke firmly though with humility, warning him of the doom he courted.”
Draupadī said:
“I am but a servant, low, unknown,
A hair-dresser, no queen on throne.
Another’s wife am I, O lord,
Turn back thy heart from this accord.
Take joy, O chief, in wedded spouse,
Tread not in sin another’s house.
Desire so blind brings shame and fall,
Calamity overtakes it all.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“But Kīcaka, maddened by lust, forgot dharma and death alike.”
Kīcaka said:
“I am the power behind this throne,
This kingdom’s pulse, its life, its bone.
None rivals me in youth or might,
In wealth, in form, in sheer delight.
Why serve when thou couldst reign with me,
Mistress of all prosperity?
Accept me, lady of fair face,
And share this kingdom’s throne and grace.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Then Draupadī, her eyes dark as storm clouds, replied again, warning him of the Gandharvas who guarded her.”
Draupadī said:
“O foolish one, cast off this way,
Thy life thou’lt lose this very day.
Five husbands guard me, Gandharva-born,
Their wrath is fire, their touch is thorn.
Skyward or earthward thou mayst flee,
Or cross the wide and foaming sea,
Yet from their hands no flight, no place,
Will save thee from their vengeful chase.
Thou art a child who seeks the moon,
A sick man yearning for his doom.
Turn back, O Kīcaka, from this sin,
Or perish, torn thy soul within.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Thus rebuked, Kīcaka still burned with desire. Like a moth circling a flame, he hovered about Draupadī, blind to the doom that awaited him.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Thus rejected by Draupadī, Kīcaka, burning with lust, turned again to Sudeshnā, his sister, and spoke in desperation.”
Kīcaka said:
“O queen, contrive by any art,
That Sairindhrī may grant my heart.
Without her arms I waste, I die,
O sister, hear my fevered cry!”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Hearing his lament, Sudeshnā, gentle yet weak before her brother’s will, pondered. Considering both Kīcaka’s resolve and Draupadī’s distress, she answered him softly.”
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Sudeshnā said:
“Prepare a feast with meats and wine,
Of choicest fare and draughts divine.
Then will I send my maid to thee,
On pretext of my thirst to be.
Alone within thy chamber’s wall,
So strive to bend her heart withal.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Delighted, Kīcaka at once prepared wines fit for kings, and viands of every taste and meat of every kind. When all was ready, Sudeshnā summoned Draupadī, handing her a golden vessel, and said—”
Sudeshnā said:
“Go, Sairindhrī, to Kīcaka’s hall,
Bring wine for me, delay not all.
My thirst afflicts me—heed my word,
Be swift, obedient to thy lord.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“But Draupadī, trembling, with tears in her eyes, spoke in sorrow.”
Draupadī said:
“O gentle queen, how can I go?
Thou knowest well his shameless woe.
In thy own halls I cannot stay,
Faithless to husbands, led astray.
Did I not tell thee from the start,
His glance would wound, his hand would smart?
Send any other maid of thine—
Not me, O princess, not this time.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Yet Sudeshnā, swayed by her brother’s might, pressed her still.”
Sudeshnā said:
“Go thou, for I have sent thee there;
Sent from my side, he will not dare.
Fear not, O maid of curling hair,
Take now this vessel bright and fair.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Thus compelled, Draupadī, weeping and fearful, prayed within her heart.”
Draupadī prayed:
“I know no man but husbands five,
By that pure Truth may I survive.
O gods, protect me from this wrong,
Defend me, make my spirit strong!”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“And she bowed in silent adoration to Sūrya, the radiant lord. The Sun, compassionate, commanded a mighty Rākṣasa to guard her unseen. From that time, the spirit of the Rākṣasa followed her, keeping her safe from violation.
So Draupadī, like a doe trembling before a lion, entered Kīcaka’s hall with the golden vessel in hand. And the Sūta, beholding her approach, felt as one stranded on the shoreless sea who suddenly sees a boat within reach.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Insulted by Kīcaka, the illustrious princess of dark hue and slender waist went to her quarters, trembling with rage and grief. She bathed herself, washed her garments, and sat weeping, pondering the means of revenge.
‘What am I to do? Where shall I go? How can my purpose be effected?’ she thought. Then she remembered Bhīma. ‘There is none else but Bhīma who can accomplish today the purpose of my heart!’
Afflicted with sorrow, yet possessed of courage, Draupadī rose at night. Leaving her bed, she moved swiftly and silently through the darkened palace toward Bhīmasena’s quarters.”
Like a frightened doe she sought the lair,
Of a lion asleep with mighty air.
Like a vine to a sala tree she clung,
Her arms around his shoulders hung.
Like a she-elephant seeking her mate,
She roused the hero to his fate.
Her voice like a lute on Gandhāra string,
Awoke the slumbering son of the wind.
Vaiśampāyana said:
“She embraced Bhīma as a creeper embraces a mighty tree on the banks of the Gomati. She roused him as a lioness rouses a sleeping lion in a trackless forest. Her words were sweet, but her heart was aflame.”
Draupadī said:
“Arise, arise, O Bhīmasena!
Why lie as one dead, O mighty lion?
Shall a wretch who disgraced thy wife yet live?
Surely he who lives does not suffer such wrong!
Kīcaka has shamed me this day in the hall,
With foul desire he sought to enthrall.
If thou art mine, O lord of might,
Rise and avenge me this very night!”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Awakened, Bhīma sat up upon his couch overlaid with rich cloth. His eyes glowed like coals, but his voice was steady as he addressed her.”
Bhīma said:
“Krishna, why comest thou here so pale,
Thy colour gone, thy body frail?
Speak all—be it bitter, painful, or sweet,
I alone am thy refuge, thy shield, thy feat.
Tell me thy wish, thy purpose and plan,
And return to thy bed ere the palace wakes,
For again and again from peril I save thee—
Speak now, O beloved, and vengeance takes.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Thus did Bhīma, mighty-armed son of Vāyu, speak to his beloved Panchālī. And thus, at the midnight hour, in whispered words, Draupadī poured out her grief and her terrible plea for Kīcaka’s destruction.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Then Draupadī, with eyes swollen from weeping, addressed Bhīma. Her words, heavy with sorrow, were like arrows tipped with fire, striking the very heart of her mighty husband.”
“What grief is left unknown to her
Who has Yudhiṣṭhira for her lord?
Why ask me, Bhīma, of my pain,
When all my wounds thou knowest plain?
Dragged to the court, called slave by name,
By the Pratikāmin, amid men of fame—
That fire yet smoulders in my breast,
No queen but I could bear that test.
The Saindhava shamed me in the wood,
A second blow no woman should.
And now—Kīcaka’s vile, unholy deed,
He kicked me down—who else could bleed?
What worth hath life, O son of Vāyu,
When thou dost ask as though untrue?
Though crushed by grief, I stand alone,
While thou dost slumber, pity none.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Her voice grew sharper, turning from grief to bitter reproach. She spoke of Yudhiṣṭhira, her heart scorched with anger at his weakness.”
“Censure that elder, slave of dice,
Who sold his wife for fortune’s price.
Kingdom, brothers, wealth, and fame—
He cast them all in ruinous game.
Had he but played for years unending,
His hoards of gold and gifts unbending,
His steeds, his mules, his endless store,
Would never fail, though staked once more.
But blinded by the gambler’s lust,
He cast away his people’s trust.
Now see him, mute, consumed with shame,
Reflecting ever on his blame.
Once kings by thousands graced his hall,
A hundred thousand maidens tall,
With trays in hand, their service sweet,
Fed guests by day and night complete.
A thousand nishkas every dawn,
He gave, though riches still were drawn.
Now lo!—that mighty lord of men,
Casts dice in Virata’s den.
Bards with voices gemmed and clear,
Sang his praises twice each year.
Sages gathered, Snātakas fed—
By Yudhiṣṭhira’s bounty bred.
Alas! That lord, once sunlike bright,
Dwells now in another’s sight.
Once earth’s kings bowed at his feet,
Now he begs for scraps to eat.
O Bhīma, he who shone like flame,
Lives now in servitude and shame.
Once a sovereign without peer,
He whispers flattery in another’s ear.
Who then, O Bhārata, can say,
That Draupadī knows not grief today?”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Thus did Krishna, daughter of Drupada, pour out her grief, mingled with reproach. Her words fell like fuel into the fire of Bhīma’s wrath, soon to blaze forth with terrible promise.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Then the dark-eyed daughter of Drupada, her heart pierced by a hundred sorrows, spoke again to Bhīmasena. Her words, rising like sobs, were laden with reproach, pity, and despair.”
“O Bhārata, another grief I bear,
Listen, though it breaks my heart to share.
Thou—lion of men, in strength divine—
Art shamed, and called a cook of swine!
Vallava—so the people say,
The mighty Bhīma works for pay.
When kitchen toil is done, thou still
Dost sit by Virāṭa, meek and still.
When elephants thou fightest for their sport,
And women laugh within the court,
My soul is pierced with cruel flame,
For such a fate is not thy name.
When lions, tigers, buffaloes fight,
And Kaikeyī’s women watch the sight,
I faint, though none my body harm,
For grief o’erpowers my very form.
Then the queen mocks—‘Sairindhrī weeps,
For Vallava, the cook she keeps.
They entered here the selfsame day,
Lovers disguised in a hidden way!’
Such taunts, O Bhīma, scorch my breast,
With shame, with fury unconfessed.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Then, turning from Bhīma, her sorrow widened to the other sons of Pāṇḍu, each disguise a wound upon her heart.”
“And what of Arjuna, peerless, bold?
Whose arms once scarred by bowstring old,
Now hide with bangles, conch-brace set—
My tears fall thick when him I met.
He who with Agni burnt the wood,
Now sings for maidens’ idle mood.
That thunderbolt of Kuru’s race,
Now paints his eyes, and curls his face!
He who could shake the earth with tread,
Whose car-wheels roared, whose arrows sped—
Now dances lightly, girdled fair,
Among the women braiding hair.
O Bhīma! When my heart recalls,
Arjuna in Virāṭa’s halls,
I lose all path, I lose all breath,
It seems my soul is struck with death.”
“And Sahadeva—gentle, mild,
Beloved by Kuntī, her sweetest child.
A prince, a hero, wise and strong,
Now tends the cattle all day long.
He sleeps at night on calf-skins spread,
A cowherd where once kings he led.
My mother wept and bade me tend
Him, tender, bashful, till the end.
Now red-dyed robes and kine his care,
While grief consumes me unaware.
O Bhīma, what sin did he make,
To bear such bonds for virtue’s sake?”
“And Nakula—the lotus-eyed,
Whose beauty made all hosts subside,
Now curbs the steeds for Virāṭa’s pride,
Trains horses fleet, yet shames his side.
He, whom in battle kings obeyed,
Now shows the stables well arrayed.
O mighty one, to see him so,
My fever burns, my tears o’erflow.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Thus Draupadī, wrung with grief, poured forth her lamentation. Her words, each a flame, sought to rouse Bhīma’s heart to wrath. She stood trembling, her dark locks falling loose, her eyes blazing like twin lamps, as though awaiting from him a vow of vengeance.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Then Kṛṣṇā, daughter of Drupada, still weeping in the moonlight of the kitchen hall, spoke to Bhīmasena once more. Her words were like arrows; each one struck his heart, stirring the storm within.”
“Alas, O Bhārata, through the throw of the dice
By that desperate gambler, I pay this price.
Under Sudheṣṇā’s command I dwell,
A Sairindhrī in another’s shell.
A princess once, now pounding sand,
Waiting for time to turn its hand.
Success and defeat are a moving wheel—
I live on hope, though my wounds are real.
Even givers must beg; even slayers are slain;
Destiny’s tide none can restrain.
Like a dried-up tank refilled by rain,
I wait for our fortune to rise again.
Surrounded by brothers and kin I should smile,
Yet misery dogs me mile by mile.
Surely some sin of a former day
Has brought this night of shame my way.”
She lifted her hands—once soft as lotus petals—showing Bhīma the corns from grinding sandal for Sudheṣṇā.
“See these hands that queens once kissed,
Now rough with labour none can list.
She who walked with maids in train
Walks behind, a servant, in pain.
She who ruled the Earth to the sea,
Lives in fear of Sudheṣṇā’s decree.
She who never feared Kuntī or thee
Quails before Matsya’s king for a fee.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Having poured out her heart thus, Kṛṣṇā cast her tear-filled eyes upon Bhīma. With voice choked in sobs, sighing again and again, she said—”
“Signal, O Bhīma, must my offence have been,
To the gods unseen or some sin within.
For though my life is a sea of pain,
Still I breathe where I should be slain.”