novelraw Arc 1 - Pandava-Pravesa and Kichak-Vadha Parva Chapter 3 - Kīcaka’s Death
Arc 1 - Pandava-Pravesa and Kichak-Vadha Parva Chapter 3 - Kīcaka’s Death
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Then that slayer of hostile heroes, Vṛkodara, covered his face with her roughened hands—hands once like tender flowers—and began to weep. The mighty son of Kuntī held the hands of Draupadī in his own, and shedding copious tears, spoke these words, his heart now blazing like a storm-cloud at dawn.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Then Bhīmasena, the son of Vāyu, hearing the words of Draupadī and beholding her tear-stained face hidden in his breast, was shaken like a lion roused from slumber. His mighty arms quivered with restrained wrath, and his heart blazed like fire covered by ash.”
Bhīma said:
“Fie on the might of my arms,
Fie on the Gandīva of Phālguna!
For thy lotus-hands, once red and soft,
Are now scarred with corns of labour.
I would have crushed Kīcaka’s skull
Like a pestle shatters grain,
But Yudhiṣṭhira’s glance forbade,
And I bore the chain of silence.
The loss of our realm burns me,
The forbearance of our foes sears me,
The javelin of memory
Stands fixed within my breast.”
He lifted her face, and his voice deepened with restraint.
Bhīma said:
“Do not, O graceful one, abandon virtue. If Yudhiṣṭhira were to hear thy reproach, he would lay down his life in grief. If Arjuna and the twins knew thy anguish, even they would renounce breath. And if they perished, how could I endure?
Did not Sukanyā follow Cyavana, though ants had built a hill upon his aged body? Did not Indrasenā cleave to her husband though he was a thousand years old? Did not Sītā, princess of Videha, suffer the Rakṣasas and yet regain Rāma? Did not Lopāmudrā forsake pleasure for Agastya, and Savitrī wrest Satyavān back from Yama’s hand?
Like these chaste ones thou art, O blessed lady. Endure a little longer—half a month more. When the thirteenth year is fulfilled, thou shalt again be queen, seated on the throne beside thy lords.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Thus consoled, Draupadī yet wept, her voice choked with indignation.”
Draupadī said:
“Not Yudhiṣṭhira do I blame,
Nor dwell I on the past.
But the hour is upon us, Bhīma—
The work of the moment must be done!
Kīcaka, puffed with lust and pride,
Stalks me like a jackal.
Even before the eyes of men
He kicked me to the ground.
If tomorrow’s sun should rise
And find him yet alive,
I will drink the poison cup,
For I shall never yield!”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Having spoken thus, Kṛṣṇā hid her face again in Bhīma’s chest and sobbed. Bhīma, mighty-armed and terrible in wrath, embraced her and wiped her tears. Then, licking the corners of his mouth like a lion scenting prey, he thought of Kīcaka, and his fury blazed. At last he spoke, his words like the roar of thunder, to the trembling yet resolute daughter of Drupada.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Then Bhīma, the son of Vāyu, answered Kṛṣṇā’s plea; his wrath, long banked like a river behind stone, at last found its channel.”
Bhīma said:
“As thou wilt, so shall it be—
This very night he dies by me.
In Matsya’s hall where maidens dance,
I’ll end his life and break his chance.
There stands a couch of seasoned wood;
There shall I bind his lust and blood.
Go speak with him, but let none see—
Then leave the rest to fate—and me.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Through the slow-turning day they waited like coals under ash. At dawn Kīcaka, drunk with pride, taunted Kṛṣṇā in the court—boasting lordship over Matsya and tempting her with gold, slaves, and cars.
She answered with cunning: their union must be secret, hidden from kin and friends, for fear of her Gandharva lords. Kīcaka, witless with lust, swore compliance. Kṛṣṇā named the place—the dancing-hall, empty at night—and returned to Bhīma with the sign agreed.
Kīcaka then adorned himself like a lamp brightening before it dies. At night he slipped to the darkened hall, seeking Sairindhrī. But there, a shape lay waiting—a lion at ease, a storm contained: Bhīma.”
The meeting and the mock:
“I’ve set apart for thee,” he purred,
“Gold, maids, a house—my plighted word.”
“Thou art well-formed,” the lion smiled,
“Well-skilled in love—well-dressed, well-styled.”
Then thunder broke.
Vaiśampāyana said:
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“Bhīma rose laughing, his shadow towering in the gloom.”
Bhīma said:
“Tonight thy sister sees thee thrown,
A mountain-bull by lion down.
Our wife shall sleep from fear set free—
Thy end is come; thy hour is me.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“He seized Kīcaka by his garlanded hair; Kīcaka wrenched free and clinched the Pāṇḍava’s arms. Then like tuskers crazed in spring they grappled—nail and tooth, knee upon rib, forehead on breast—floor and pillars shuddering to their roars.
Kīcaka hurled Bhīma; Bhīma sprang like Yama with the mace. Embracing, dragging, throwing, they crashed again and again, the sound like splitting bamboo. Then the Sūta waned beneath that mountain-force. Bhīma drew him to his chest, pressed hard; breath tore from Kīcaka in ragged blasts. The son of Vāyu bound him as a hunter binds a beast and whirled him till he shrieked like a broken trumpet.
To still Kṛṣṇā’s wrath, Bhīma closed his iron arms upon the villain’s throat, drove his knee into the waist, and slew him. Not content, he crushed limb from limb—arms, legs, neck, and head—till the body was one ruined mass, as Rudra makes sacrifice a shapeless thing.”
A vow fulfilled:
“The debt is paid,” he said in fire,
“The thorn plucked out of Sairindhrī’s ire.
Who courts our queen shall die like this—
Thus ends the hand that sought her kiss.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Lighting a torch, he called Kṛṣṇā and showed the broken carcass.”
Bhīma said:
“Look, Panchālī—behold thy foe.
So fall all hands that wrong thee so.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Work done, the hero slipped back to the kitchens, wrath cooled to embers. Kṛṣṇā, her grief washed clean, summoned the guards.”
Draupadī cried:
“Come see the Sūta who defiled
Good men’s wives—by Gandharvas styled,
He lies undone—learn fear and flee;
Let virtue rule in Matsya’s lea.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Torches flared. The warders thronged the hall, staring aghast: Where are his neck and legs? Who but a spirit could do this? And they whispered one name—Gandharva—over and over, while the night wind carried away the last breath of Kīcaka and the first calm of Kṛṣṇā since exile began.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“When the kinsmen of Kīcaka gathered, they raised a dirge over his shattered frame. Mangled in every limb, crushed like a tortoise dragged from the water, he lay bereft of form and pride. Fear seized them, and their bodies bristled like reeds in the storm. Yet grief turned quickly to wrath, and seeing Kṛṣṇā standing by the pillar, they cried aloud:
‘For this wanton woman’s sake our kinsman lies slain! Burn her with him! Let her share his pyre, for to her belongs his ruin!’
And they besought king Virāṭa. Bound by the fear of Kīcaka’s clan, the Matsya monarch gave consent. Then seizing the lotus-eyed princess, slender as a reed and trembling like a doe, they bound her to the bier and bore her forth to the cremation ground.
As she was dragged through the streets, Panchālī wailed aloud:
“Jaya! Jayanta! Vijaya! Jayatsena! Jayadvala!
Hear me, ye Gandharvas swift of hand,
Whose bowstrings thunder, whose chariots roar—
The Sutas drag me hence to flame!
Save me, O lords, ere shame is mine!”
Her cry pierced the night.
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Bhīma, lion of the Kurus, heard her voice. Springing up from his bed, he cried aloud, ‘Thy words I hear, O Sairindhrī! Fear not—no Suta shall harm thee now.’
Swelling his body like a wrathful cloud, he changed his garb, slipped by a hidden way, and vaulted the wall by the aid of a tree. Like Yama loosed upon the world, he rushed toward the cemetery. There he espied a vast tree, tall as a palmyra, broad-shouldered, dry at the crown. Uprooting it as an elephant tears a reed, he set it on his shoulder and strode like the Lord of Death himself.
At his rush, banyans, aśvatthas, and kinsukas fell crashing down. The earth shook. The Sutas, seeing him advance—giant form, tree aloft, eyes blazing—cried in terror: ‘The Gandharva comes! Let Sairindhrī go, or we are lost!’
Panic-struck, they loosed the princess and fled toward the city. But Bhīma, wind-borne and pitiless, hurled his tree with both hands. A hundred and five fell crushed, skulls shattered, bones splintered, as Vāsava’s thunderbolt lays low the Dānavas. Corpses covered the ground like trees torn by hurricane.
Then the mighty Vṛkodara freed Kṛṣṇā from her bonds. He wiped her tears and spoke gently, though wrath still smouldered in his breast:
“Thus fall they who wrong thee without cause.
Fear no more, O timid one—
Return to the city in peace.
I will find my way unseen.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“So perished the clan of Kīcaka—one hundred and six in number, with their lord already slain. Men and women, gathering to behold that terrible sight, found speech desert them. The ground was strewn with corpses like a forest uprooted by storm. And the name of Bhīma, son of the Wind, spread in whispers, half in awe, half in fear, through the land of Matsya.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“When the Sutas were slain and their bodies strewed the ground like mountains split by thunder, the citizens hastened in terror to king Virāṭa. Bowing before him, they said:
‘O king, behold the fate of the Sutas! Mighty and terrible Gandharvas have destroyed them. The princess Sairindhrī, freed from their grasp, returneth to thy palace. But beware, O lord of Matsya! She is fair beyond measure, and the Gandharvas, her unseen guardians, are fierce. Men, by nature, fall easily to desire. If wrong befalls her again, thy kingdom itself will be endangered. Devise, therefore, some measure of safety, lest calamity consume us all.’
Virāṭa, filled with dread, replied:
‘Let the Sutas be burnt in one pyre, decked with gems and anointed with fragrant oils. As for Sairindhrī, speak to her gently, O Sudeshnā. Tell her thus from me: “Go, O blessed one, whithersoever thou likest. The Gandharvas protect thee, and I dare not speak to thee face to face. Only through a woman can I speak without offence.”’
Freed by Bhīmasena, Kṛṣṇā bathed her dust-stained limbs, washed her garments, and moved like a startled doe toward the city gates. The citizens, beholding her beauty, fled in awe, whispering, ‘She is guarded by Gandharvas!’ Some shut their eyes, others turned away, none daring to gaze long upon her.
At the kitchen door, she beheld Bhīma, vast as a maddened elephant. With eyes expanded in wonder, she bowed slightly and said in words meant for him alone:
‘I bow to that Gandharva-prince
Who hath rescued me from peril.’
And Bhīma, smiling fiercely, replied:
‘Hearing this praise, those who once feared the Sutas
Will henceforth walk free, their debt repaid.’
Then she came upon Dhanañjaya in the dancing-hall, instructing the maidens of Virāṭa. With them, she entered, and the damsels, crowding round, said:
‘By fortune art thou safe, O Sairindhrī! By fortune hast thou returned unharmed! By fortune are those Sutas, sinful though they were, slain at last.’
Vṛhannalā asked softly:
‘Tell me truly, O Sairindhrī, how wert thou delivered, and how did those wretches meet their end?’
Draupadī, still wounded in pride, replied:
‘O Vṛhannalā, thou that dwellest always in joy among maidens, what knowest thou of my grief? Thou hast no burden such as mine, nor dost thou taste the bitterness of my sorrow. Therefore thou askest lightly, while I am mocked by fortune.’
Vṛhannalā sighed and said:
‘O blessed one, deem not that I am free of grief. I, too, am sunk as low as a brute, wearing the guise of shame. Long have we dwelt together; can I not feel thy pain? Yet the heart of another is a hidden thing, unseen in its depth. Therefore, O Panchālī, thou knowest not mine.’
Draupadī then entered the queen’s chamber with the maidens. At Virāṭa’s command, Sudeshnā spoke gently:
‘O Sairindhrī, speed thou whither thou wilt. The king is troubled by thy presence. Fair art thou, beyond compare, and men are drawn to thee. But the Gandharvas who guard thee are fierce. Lest peril arise again, depart, O lady of lotus-eyes.’
But Sairindhrī bowed and said with calm resolve:
‘O beauteous queen, let me remain here for but thirteen days more. Then the Gandharvas, my lords, will bear me hence. Thus shall Virāṭa reap benefit, and no harm befall his house.’
Vaiśampāyana said:
“In those days the name of Kīcaka, and of his doom, ran like flame through the provinces. Men told and retold how the tyrant who had dishonoured many a hearth lay mangled by a Gandharva’s hand, and how the house of the Sūta was shorn of its pride. Fear filled the city; whispers spread from lane to lane: the Vallava and the Kichaka—both famed for prowess—had met an end none could well explain.
Meanwhile the scouts of Dhṛtarāṣṭra returned from their long quest. After ranging the wilds and the towns, probing fastness and ford, climbing hills and threading forest-groves, they came into the presence of Duryodhana and the princes of the Kuru house, and spake thus before Drona, Karṇa, Kṛpa, and Bhīṣma.”
The spies said:
“O king, we ranged the forest vast,
From lonely glade to mountain-crest.
We sought the track of Pandu’s sons,
Yet lost the prints where’er it runs.
Through thickets dense and jungle shade,
On heights where even deer afraid,
We traced and followed day and night—
But found no trace, nor left nor right.
The charioteers went forth and came
To Dvāravatī—yet none the same.
No sign of Yudhishthira, nor of Krishna fair,
Is found in those Yādava courts there.
Perchance they perished, left no mark;
Perchance they wander hidden, dark.
We know their nature and their deeds—
Yet of their present haven know we needs.
One note yet gladdens—hear it, king:
Kīcaka’s clan lies low this thing;
The Sūta-brothers, slain in night,
By Gandharvas fell in sudden blight.
This news delights our heart, O lord—
Tell us, where next shall lie our sword?
What further task shall we pursue?
What orders shall we take from you?”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Thus did the messengers unfold their tale. Duryodhana listened, glad at the report of the Sūta clan’s fall, yet restless that the sons of Pṛthā still eluded capture. He pondered, and in that court of mighty men the next counsel would be taken—how best to find or to draw out those hidden princes. Thus the tale paused, and fate prepared its next stroke.”