novelraw Arc 4 - Kṛṣṇa-yāna Parva Chapter 16 - The Tale of Viduḷā
Arc 4 - Kṛṣṇa-yāna Parva Chapter 16 - The Tale of Viduḷā
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Kuntī, noble among women and firm in understanding, spoke to Bhīma of terrible might, desiring to awaken his spirit to action. With gentle but steadfast wisdom, she said, “In this connection, O chastiser of foes, there is an ancient story once spoken among the virtuous — the tale of the high-born lady Viduḷā and her son, fallen in despair. Hear it, O son, and from it gather strength for Yudhiṣṭhira’s sake.”
There was once, O King, a princess named Viduḷā, renowned in all the earth for her learning, foresight, and valour of spirit. Stern of temper, crooked in disposition yet noble in resolve, she was devoted to the virtues of the Kṣatriya order. Skilled in speech, she had heard the counsels of many kings and sages.
One day, when her son, defeated by the ruler of the Sindhus, lay sunken in shame and misery, that lion-hearted mother approached him. Seeing her son bereft of pride, bereft of wrath, she rebuked him in words fierce and blazing like the fire of chastisement.
“Thou art not my son, O joy of foes,
Not born of me nor of thy sire!
Whence cometh one so cold of soul,
Whose heart contains no warrior’s fire?
A man is he who meets his fate,
Who smites the foe or nobly dies;
But thou dost lie in low estate,
A fallen bird that never flies.
Rise up! O son of sluggish heart,
Cast off this grief, this coward’s rest;
The palms of mice hold little worth—
The timid never meet the test.
Better to perish facing death,
To clutch the serpent by its fangs,
Than live in shame, a dog of fear,
Whose life to low dishonour hangs.
Awake! and blaze, if but an hour,
As tinduka wood in sudden flame;
Better to burn than ever smoke,
Better to die than live in shame.
He who, in battle, dies in wrath,
Is freed from debt to kṣatriya birth;
His glory lives beyond the pyre,
His name resounds across the earth.
The coward lives, but dead within,
Bereft of duty, fame, and fire;
Who fears to strive, though born a man,
Doth shame the womb that gave him sire.
If fall thou must, then seize thy foe,
And sink not down in helpless gloom;
Even cut from root, the noble tree
Strives upward still, defying doom.”
Thus spoke Viduḷā, her words fierce as thunder, piercing her son’s heart like arrows of fire. She said further that contentment without effort is ruin, and softness of heart when duty calls is destruction.
She urged:
“Remember, my son, a man is called puruṣa because he troubles his enemy. He who lives like a woman, trembling and afraid, is unworthy of that name. Arise therefore, and by the strength of thine own arms recover thine honour and thy realm. For a king’s glory lies not in comfort, but in the toil that upholds his people.”
Then Viduḷā’s voice turned from wrath to reason, flowing calm like a river after storm.
“Let no son be born in royal line,
Who burns too fierce or sleeps too mild;
But he who keeps his valour’s sign,
Is god and man and hero styled.
Be not content with mendicant’s way,
Nor live on crumbs another owns;
Let others thrive upon thy strength,
Like birds that feast on fruitful zones.
On him the world and friends depend,
Whose arms uphold the weak and worn;
His life, though brief, is crowned and full—
A harvest rich though swiftly shorn.
He who forgives when wrath is due,
Is neither man nor woman true;
But he whose spirit flames and dares,
Is lord of men, of deeds, of heirs.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
When the mother had thus spoken, her son, wounded by her words yet roused by her power, said unto her, “If thou beholdest me not, O mother, what joy will life, wealth, or the earth itself bring thee?”
To him, Viduḷā replied with the serene firmness of dharma itself:
“Let our foes win those base domains
Where lowly hearts and cowards dwell;
But thou, my son, seek regions bright,
Where valour’s sons in glory swell.
Depend not, like the feeble herd,
On others’ gifts, on others’ grace;
Be as the tree whose fruits sustain
The birds that throng its leafy space.
So lives the man of kingly soul,
On whom the weary all depend;
His strength, their refuge and their goal,
His life—a path that hath no end.”
Thus spoke the noble lady, firm in wisdom and aflame with righteousness. Her words, though wrapped in chastisement, were the fire that rekindled courage. Hearing her, her son rose like one awakened from long sleep, his heart burning with the memory of his mother’s faith and the call of his kṣatriya dharma.
Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Viduḷā, the high-souled princess of valiant race, continued her words unto her despondent son, her eyes kindled with the fire of righteous wrath. Standing before him like the flame of sacrificial fire, she spoke as one inspired by Dharma itself.
“If thou abandonest manliness now,
When fate hath struck thee low in fight,
Then, son, thy feet shall swiftly tread
The path of men devoid of might.
The Kṣatriya born, who loveth life
And hides his power in fear’s disguise,
Is counted thief of noble birth,
And mean before his mother’s eyes.
My words, though charged with healing fire,
Fall fruitless on thy timid ear;
Like medicine given to the doomed,
They reach no heart that quails in fear.”
Then she turned her speech toward counsel and foresight. Her voice, though fierce, was measured like the toll of a sacred bell.
“O child, the Sindhu king hath hosts of followers, but they are weak, bound by dependence and ignorance. They cannot save him when misfortune comes. Others, beholding thee arise in power, will rally to thy cause. Join with them, take refuge in strongholds among the mountains, and await the season when thy enemy’s fortune wanes. For none, however mighty, escapes decay, disease, or death.
By name thou art Sañjaya — the Victorious. Yet I see not in thee the mark of that name. Be true to thy birth, O my son! Make thy name a living truth. When thou wert a child, a Brāhmaṇa of great insight foretold that, though thou wouldst fall into distress, thou wouldst rise again into glory. Remember his words, O hero, and rise! For I tell thee this not in anger but in faith — in the hope of thy victory.”
“He who pursues his purpose firm,
Whose friends with zeal his labours share,
Shall conquer fate by policy,
And reap the fruit of toil and care.
Whether by gain or loss beset,
The steadfast never turn aside;
The vow once taken — ‘I will strive!’ —
Becomes their law, their strength, their guide.”
She spoke again, her words heavy with the sorrow of fallen splendour:
“O son, Sāmvara hath said, ‘No misery equals the daily fear for food.’ The want of sustenance is death itself; poverty is a form of dying. I was once, O Sanjaya, the mistress of every joy — honoured by my lord, adorned with gems, radiant among friends, and served by many. But now, bereft of wealth and hope, I live by the memory of what was.
When thou beholdest me and thy wife wasting away from hunger, thy heart shall burn within thee. When our priests and teachers, once maintained by us, abandon us from want, thou shalt know despair. Should I ever say ‘No’ to a Brāhmaṇa in need, my soul will burst — for neither I nor thy father ever refused a petitioner. We were the refuge of others, not those who sought refuge. If now I must live by another’s favour, I shall cast away my life in shame.
Therefore, be thou the means of our deliverance, O son. Be our boat upon this ocean of calamity. Make a path where none exists. Revive us, though we seem dead. Thou art capable of conquering all foes, if only thou abandonest this longing for life. But if thou choosest the life of weakness, the life fit only for the impotent, then better were death itself.”
“The hero wins eternal fame
Though but a single foe he slay;
Indra became the lord of heaven
By striking Vṛtra in the fray.
The brave who fight in shining mail,
Their names on lips of foes proclaim;
They sow their glory in the field,
And harvest immortality’s flame.
Cowards enrich the bold and strong,
By yielding all that life can hold;
But kings, though ruined, perish grand,
Their names remembered, hearts made bold.
To rule or die — both gates of heaven!
To falter — that alone is hell;
Rise, like a brand mid foes that burn,
And let thy death in triumph dwell.”
Then, her eyes glistening with tears but her words unbending, she spoke of royal pride:
“O King, slay thy foes in battle and fulfil thy Kṣatriya duty. Let me not see thee joyless and surrounded by lamenting kin and triumphant foes. Rejoice instead among the fair daughters of the Sauviras, not as one ruled, but ruling. For if a prince so gifted with beauty, learning, and fame should bow to others in weakness, it were death indeed.
“What peace can be in mother’s heart,
To see her son in bondage move?
Our race hath never walked behind,
But led in honour, wrath, and love.”
Her tone deepened to solemn truth:
“O son, live not in dependence upon another. Hear what the ancients have said of the eternal dharma of kings. The Creator Himself ordained it thus — that a Kṣatriya, born of noble line and knowing his duty, should never bow his head in fear or for the sake of food.
He must stand upright, unbending, as an elephant of battle — breaking rather than yielding. He may bow only to Brāhmaṇas for the sake of virtue, but to none else in the three worlds. So long as he lives, with or without allies, let him rule in courage, destroying the wicked and upholding dharma.
“Stand like a lion, fierce and free,
Let none compel thee to the dust;
Better to break than bend the knee—
For in thy strength thy mother trusts.
Bow only where true wisdom dwells,
Before the seers of sacred flame;
Rule all the rest — for thus ordained
Is royal duty, son of fame.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Thus spoke the illustrious Viduḷā, her words like bolts of Indra striking down the slumber of despair. And as she ceased, her son sat long in silence, his heart trembling with both shame and awakening courage, like a mountain trembling under the first roar of the storm.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then, O King, having heard his mother’s fierce counsel, Sanjaya, that despondent prince, answered her in sorrow and mild reproach. His voice trembled like a wounded bowstring, for his heart was torn between love and duty.
“O ruthless mother, stern of soul,
Whose heart is forged of iron fire,
Thou speakest words that pierce and burn,
As if I were no son, no sire.
Fie on the ways of Kṣatriyas proud,
Whose path is blood, whose glory pain!
Wouldst thou, for fame’s unholy shroud,
Cast me, thy only son, again?
If thou shouldst lose me, mother mine,
What worth hath earth, or gems, or gold?
Of what avail thy crown or life,
If I lie slain and thou grown old?”
But the lady Viduḷā, resolute and undaunted, answered him again with reason and fire mingled like thunder in the clouds.
“O son,” said she, “all the acts of the wise are undertaken for virtue and for profit. Eyeing both dharma and artha, I urge thee to battle. The hour hath come for the display of thy prowess. If, at such a time, thou dost shrink from action, the people shall despise thee, and I shall bear the shame.
If, through affection, I withhold counsel when thou art straying toward infamy, my affection would be like that of a she-ass for her foal — blind and witless. Do not walk the path of the foolish, O Sanjaya. It is crowded with the weak and unwise. Follow rather the road of the wise, for only thus shalt thou be dear to me. If thou upholdest virtue and profit together, relying upon divine favour yet trusting in human effort, thou shalt win honour among men and gods alike.”
“The mother loves the valiant son,
Whose deeds fulfil his noble race;
Not him who shuns the task begun,
And hides his hands in soft disgrace.
The wise delight in worthy heirs,
Whose learning shines, whose hearts are pure;
But those whose sloth their birth impairs,
Are griefs no mother should endure.”
Then she spoke of the sacred duty of the warrior:
“O Sanjaya, the Kṣatriya was created for battle and victory. Whether he wins or falls, he attains the region of Indra. The joy that a king feels in subduing his enemies is greater even than that of heaven itself. If vanquished many times, a true warrior waits again with burning wrath to strike. Without slaying his foe or offering his life, how can he find peace?
The wise regard the little as intolerable, for what is petty soon becomes a source of pain. He who accepts small gains becomes enslaved to want; but he who strives for the great, though he fall, remains noble, like Gaṅgā merging in the ocean.”
At this, Sanjaya spoke softly, weary of strife and scorched by her words:
“O mother, still thy storming tongue,
And grant thy son a gentler part;
Stay by my side, and speak no more,
Let silence heal thy wounded heart.”
But Viduḷā, hearing those words, smiled with proud delight and answered with fiercer warmth:
“Now gladdened am I, noble child,
That thou wouldst stir me to my right!
I shall not rest till thou return
Triumphant from the deadly fight.
I’ll honour thee, my son, when I
Behold thee crowned with victory’s flame,
When Sindhu’s sons in terror fly,
And all thy foes shall curse thy name.”
Then Sanjaya said:
“O mother wise, thou urgest me to battle; but without wealth or allies, how shall I conquer? Bereft of fortune, I have turned from kingship as a sinner turns from heaven. Yet if thou seest any path by which I may regain power, speak it plainly, for I shall do as thou commandest.”
Viduḷā replied, her eyes bright with purpose:
“Cast off despair, O son. Never disgrace thy soul with the shadow of failure. What is lost may yet be regained; what is gained may yet be lost. Success and defeat are twins, and neither is certain.
“He that acts, though fate obscure,
May win or fail — yet he hath tried;
But he who shuns all noble toil
Hath perished long before he died.
In idleness is certain loss,
In effort — hope of twofold kind;
Therefore arise, perform thy task,
And leave the fruits to fate behind.”
She spoke on, her words flowing like the Gāyatrī in measured wisdom:
“O prince, the man who pre-decides that all acts are vain, renders both prosperity and success impossible. Let one rather say, ‘This shall be,’ and arise in action. The king who performs every auspicious rite, and acts in alliance with the gods and the Brāhmaṇas, wins success as surely as the sun embraces the dawn.
Now the time is ripe. Thou hast heard all my counsels, full of reason and means. Display thy prowess. Win thy purpose by every exertion. Gather to thy side those wronged by thy foes — the angry, the envious, the impoverished, the humiliated, and the proud. Unite them as allies; strengthen them with gifts and gentle speech. Give rewards before they are due, tend to their needs, and speak with sweetness. Thus shall they stand by thee as one body.”
“The tempest rends the mighty cloud,
The fearless heart divides the throng;
Unite the weak, inspire the proud,
And thou shalt rise where kings belong.
When foes behold a man who dares,
Whose life he counts as naught but fire,
They fear him more than deadly snares,
For valour kindles dread’s desire.”
Then she added, in counsel sharp as a sword:
“If thy enemy, knowing thee strong, seeks not to subdue thee, he will at least strive for thy friendship through conciliation, gift, or flattery — and even that is victory. By peace gained through wisdom, wealth grows, and wealth brings friends; friends bring honour; and with honour comes strength again.
But when wealth is lost, friends turn away, and even kin mistrust and despise. Therefore, never live in false confidence with thy foe, nor depend upon the strength of others. Depend on thyself, and rise.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus ended the counsel of Viduḷā, fierce and full of wisdom. Her words fell upon her son’s heart like the sacred thunder of the Vedas — awakening fire where ashes lay. And Sanjaya, rising from despair, shone like a lion after storm, determined to win back his honour and fulfil the dharma of his race.