novelraw Arc 5 – Ulūka Agamana Parva - Chapter 10 - Sikhaṇḍin Remade
Arc 5 – Ulūka Agamana Parva - Chapter 10 - Sikhaṇḍin Remade
Vaiśaṁpāyana said:
Hear now, O king, that this change—both marvel and sorrow—was the hinge upon which later events turned. The man born of a woman, called Śikhaṇḍin, walked thereafter among kings as a warrior; and when the hour came, he would stand in the place that destiny allotted him—before Bhīṣma, as instrument and omen of fate.
Drupada’s heart quailed as a man who feels the floor fall from beneath his feet. He spoke in anguish and craft both—seeking counsel in the open while nursing a hidden dread. Before him the queen sat, serene as a moonlight pond, though her breast was no less troubled. He implored her, laying bare his fear and the peril that threatened both palace and child.
Then the queen, wise in counsel and tender in speech, answered him with words that smoothed the raw edge of panic and steered the king toward a course of cunning rather than ruin. She spoke kindly, yet with the firmness of a ruler who knows that prudence may preserve life where rashness would destroy it.
“O lord,” she said, “be not cast down like a reed in storm.
Great kings are oft by lesser things alarmed, yet many a dire cloud breaks with wise art.
Thy deed was done for honour and by vow; the gods have already mixed their will with thine.
Let not the fire of Hiranyavarman sweep away thy city; appease him now with gifts and soft speech.
Send forth fair words, send robes and kine, send envoys with calm faces;
If wrath will not be stayed, then hide the cause—let prudence cloak the child’s secret.
Let Sikhaṇḍin depart upon pilgrimage and training; so shall the matter cool.
Thus shall the blood of men be spared, and thy realm preserved for children yet unborn.”
She counselled that they should show humility to the king of the Dasarnakas, offer conciliation and tribute, and then, under cover of such amity, send the child away as if for study and rite. By this means, she said, Hiranyavarman’s wrath might be softened; and if it were not, at least the peril to Drupada’s person and the lives of his people would be averted.
Drupada, though his spirit quivered, consented to the counsel of his queen. Secret plans were laid—serene faces to be shown to the proud king, gifts to be sent, and a departure feigned as a necessary journey of princely duty. Thus did prudence govern where pride might have led to slaughter.
“So oft the wise in council move,
To draw a snare of peace from woe;
Where swords would fall, soft words may prove
A bridge for fate’s uncertain flow.”
And so, under this design, men were set to prepare a chariot and attendants. The child, still called by princely name and schooled in all the arts of war and state, was quietly readied for a journey—outwardly a voyage of learning, inwardly a flight from a wrath that might otherwise have devoured them all.
As they left the city under the veil of night and courtesy, destiny, which never sleeps, drew near to the path they would tread; for in the wilds there dwelt powers and beings whose pity and whose arts would turn the hidden truth into a new shape.
Vaiśaṁpāyana said:
Bhīṣma continued his narration, his voice like the sound of a river in flood, steady yet full of hidden power:
“O King, when the messenger of Hiranyavarman had departed, bearing words of wrath and threat, then Drupada’s queen, with eyes downcast and voice low, revealed to her lord the truth of their daughter Sikhaṇḍin. She spoke without guile, yet with the pain of one who confesses a wound she had long concealed.
‘Childless I was, O mighty king,
And feared my rivals’ questioning sting.
When born this child, a daughter mine,
I called her son for love of thine.
Rememberest thou the god’s decree?
“Daughter first, yet son shall be.”
In that trust I did not stay
Thy hand to wed her far away.’
Thus spoke the queen. And Drupada, though already knowing the hidden truth, took counsel with his ministers, telling them of the prophecy of Maheśvara. Though he had deceived the ruler of the Daśārṇakas, he gave it out to all that the alliance was proper and lawful, while at the same time he began to fortify his city and prepare for defence.
But though his ramparts were strong, his heart was weak. He prayed to the gods and poured out offerings to the fire, seeking a path by which no blood need be spilt. His queen, seeing him thus, counselled him gently yet firmly.
‘Homage to the gods bringeth blessing, O lord,
And prayer when joined with effort is a sword.
Pour gifts to Brahmanas, pour oblations of flame,
Seek thus to soften Hiranyavarman’s name.
But also, O king, act wisely and strong—
Guard well thy people, lest wrong follow wrong.
Where faith and effort go hand in hand,
Success may yet protect this land.’
While husband and wife thus counselled together, full of grief, their daughter Sikhaṇḍin, hearing their words, was struck with shame. “It is for me,” she thought, “that my parents are plunged into this ocean of sorrow.” Resolving to end her own life rather than be the cause of their destruction, she slipped from the palace in the dead of night and entered a dense forest that no man dared approach.
This was the haunt of a mighty Yakṣa named Sthūṇakarṇa, a being of strange power and deep kindness who dwelt in a mansion within that wood. Its walls were high, its gateway smeared with white clay, and its smoke rose fragrant with fried grain. Men spoke of it in whispers but dared not pass beneath its trees.
Sikhaṇḍinī, the daughter of Drupada, entered this lonely place and began to fast, reducing herself day by day, intent upon death. When she had thus afflicted herself, the Yakṣa Sthūna appeared before her, luminous yet gentle, and asked with a voice like the murmur of hidden springs:
‘For what high aim dost thou so strive?
What vow is this that steals thy life?
Speak, O maiden, and delay no more—
My power may grant what thou implore.’
At first the maiden shook her head and said again and again, “Thou canst not accomplish this.” But the Yakṣa, steadfast and smiling, replied:
‘I am servant of the Lord of Treasures;
I can grant even ungrantable measures.
No boon is too high if my heart incline—
Speak, O princess, and the boon is thine.’
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Thus assured, Sikhaṇḍinī told him all: how her father stood on the brink of destruction, how the king of the Daśārṇakas, armoured in gold and burning with wrath, marched upon them. “Save my father, save my mother, save me,” she cried. “Through thy grace, O Yakṣa, make me a perfect man! As long as Hiranyavarman lingers near our city, so long grant me this boon!”
The Yakṣa, moved by her grief, listened in silence, and the forest itself grew still as though the trees leaned forward to hear her plea.
“O mighty spirit, lord unseen,
Make true the word of Mahādeva’s scene.
From woman’s form release me now,
Give me a warrior’s heart and brow.
Let my father’s life be spared by thee,
Let my mother’s tears fall ceaselessly.
Give me manhood till the peril’s past,
That fate be met, and fear at last.”
Vaiśaṁpāyana said:
Thus, O King, did Sikhaṇḍin, born of a daughter’s flesh and a son’s destiny, lay her heart before the Yakṣa of the forest. And Sthūṇakarṇa, beholding her steadfastness, prepared to make good the promise of Śiva and turn the wheel of fate yet another notch toward its appointed hour.
Then Bhīṣma, the son of Gaṅgā, continued his account before Duryodhana and the assembled kings. His voice was deep and slow, for he spoke of things wrought by destiny itself.
Bhīṣma said:
“When the maiden Sikhaṇḍinī uttered those words of anguish before the Yakṣa, that celestial being, afflicted by fate, pondered long and said to her in solemn tone:
‘O blessed one, what thou askest was ordained of old—
Thus the weaver of destinies hath foretold.
Yet know, fair princess, thy sorrow is mine;
For thy fate and my grief in one thread twine.
I will grant thy wish; thy form shall change,
But mark the limit of this exchange.
For a span of time my manhood thine,
Thy womanhood in turn be mine.
When peril is past and the foe withdrawn,
Thou shalt return at the breaking of dawn.
Pledge me thy word, O royal maid,
For oaths once given may not be stayed.’
And the princess answered the Yakṣa, her face brightened by hope though wet with tears:
‘O holy wanderer of the night,
I pledge thee truth, I swear by light.
Take thou my woman’s form this day,
Till danger from our gates decay.
When the golden-mailed king returns no more,
I shall come again to thy forest door.
Then be thou man as thou wert before,
And I a maiden forevermore.’
Thus bound by sacred vow, they exchanged forms—the Yakṣa Sthūṇa taking on the maiden’s softness, and Sikhaṇḍinī receiving the blazing strength and manhood of that celestial being.
Clad now in virile form, Sikhaṇḍin of Pāñcāla’s line returned swiftly to Kampilya and bowed before his father, recounting all that had passed. Drupada’s joy was boundless. The words of Śaṅkara rose again in his mind, and he rejoiced to see the prophecy fulfilled.
Then, confident and exultant, he sent envoys to the king of the Daśārṇakas, proclaiming: “This child of mine is verily a son. Let it be believed by thee.”
But Hiranyavarman, still burning with wrath, came himself to Kampilya with a host of warriors. He sent a learned Brāhmaṇa as envoy, bearing bitter words:
“O deceitful ruler of the Pāñcālas,
Thou hast wronged me with a lie!
Thy daughter hath wedded mine,
And for that deceit thou shalt die!”
Hearing the envoy’s speech before his counsellors, Drupada, desiring peace, spoke mildly:
“The words of my brother shall be answered by one of mine.
Let him hear the truth from my own envoy.”
So Drupada sent another Brāhmaṇa, wise and steadfast, to the golden-mailed king with these words:
“My child is verily a man. Let this be tested and made clear.
Some false report hath misled thee; it should not be believed.”
Hiranyavarman, perplexed, sent a band of young maidens of his court—fair, keen-eyed, and discreet—to discover the truth. They came secretly to Kampilya, and when they returned, their voices rang with wonder:
“O King, Sikhaṇḍin is indeed a man!
Mighty of limb, his form is bright with the fire of youth.”
Hearing this, the king’s anger dissolved like frost beneath the sun. He hastened to Kampilya, embraced Drupada with joy, and bestowed on Sikhaṇḍin elephants, steeds, and heaps of shining gold. After many days of rejoicing, he departed, his heart cleansed of wrath.
“Thus peace returned where war had hung,
And Drupada’s halls with laughter rung.
But destiny’s thread, though slack awhile,
Still waited, coiled, with secret guile.”
Bhīṣma went on:
“Yet, O King, while these things came to pass among men, in the unseen world another fate unfolded.
Kuvera, the lord of treasures, borne through the sky on his radiant seat, passed one day above the forest of Sthūṇa. From on high he beheld the Yakṣa’s dwelling, decked with garlands and banners, rich with scent and offerings. Surprised that Sthūṇa came not forth to honour him, the lord of wealth grew wroth and said unto his attendants:
‘Why doth this one not come to me, though he knows I am here? Surely punishment is his due!’
The Yakṣas explained in fear:
‘O lord of the north, Sthūṇa hath given his manhood to Sikhaṇḍin and taken her womanhood upon himself. Bearing now a maiden’s form, he is ashamed to appear before thee!’
Then Kuvera, in anger, spoke the curse that fate required:
‘Let his femininity remain fixed until the end!
For humiliating the Yakṣas and transgressing our law,
Sthūṇa shall be woman, and Sikhaṇḍin man.
So let it be decreed!’
But when the other Yakṣas pleaded in compassion, the high-souled Vaishravaṇa relented a little and said:
‘After Sikhaṇḍin’s death, Sthūṇa shall regain his own form.
Till then, let the word stand firm.’
Then, receiving their homage, Kuvera departed through the heavens, shining like a thousand suns.
When the time appointed came, Sikhaṇḍin returned faithfully to the forest and bowed before Sthūṇa, saying, ‘I have come as pledged, O holy one.’
The Yakṣa, smiling, blessed him and said:
‘I am pleased with thee. Thy truth hath preserved our vow.
Yet know that by thy coming and my own folly I have been cursed by Kuvera.
But fear not—live thou in joy among men.
This too was ordained long ago.’
Thus released, Sikhaṇḍin returned to Kampilya in triumph. He honoured the Brāhmaṇas and the gods with gifts and garlands, and the city rejoiced as though a festival of heaven had descended upon the earth.
Drupada, delighted, placed his now-acknowledged son under the tutelage of Droṇa, who taught him the whole science of arms. Dhrishtadyumna, born later of the sacrificial fire, was likewise trained beside him.
All this, O King, was revealed to me by my spies, who, disguised as blind men and fools, learned the truth in Drupada’s court. Thus, O scion of the Kurus, is the story of Sikhaṇḍin—born a woman, yet through divine ordination and the Yakṣa’s aid, become a man.
“She who was Amvā of Kāśī’s line,
Born again through fate’s design,
Stands now as warrior fierce and grim,
To be the shadow that darkens him.
For I have sworn before all men,
Never to strike at woman again—
Nor one who was woman, or bears her name,
Though armed for war, with heart aflame.”
Bhīṣma fell silent, his vow resounding in the chamber like thunder fading among the hills.
And Sanjaya said:
“Hearing these words of the grandsire, Duryodhana, son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, bowed his head in assent, for even he felt the righteousness of Bhīṣma’s vow.”
Thus ended the tale of Sikhaṇḍin’s birth and change,
The weaving of fate from wrath and strange.
The vow of the grandsire, noble and stern,
Was heard by gods and men in turn.
Vaiśaṁpāyana said:
When Bhīṣma’s laugh died upon the air like the last ripple of a storm, a hush of uneasy counsel fell upon the Kuru host. Duryodhana’s pride burned, yet a seed of doubt had been sown—Arjuna and the Vrishni’s might were not things to be spoken of lightly.
Bhīṣma, eyes like a winter dawn, resumed, his words steady as a raft upon a river of fate.
“Listen, O king, and mark well the limits of mortal strength. I have told thee what I can do when my arms are free and when the weapons of Heaven obey my call. Yet war is not only numbers: it is timing, stratagem, and the single arrow loosed at the appointed instant. Take Arjuna from the field and many a boast will be but wind. Wherever Partha stands with Gandiva and with the counsel of Vasudeva at his ear, there are no bounds to that hero’s peril. If these two join in heart and skill, whole hosts are shattered like parched reeds.
As for me, O monarch, I have laid upon myself a vow that men remember. I will not strike down one who is a woman, nor one who has been woman; nor will I use my might against one that bears a feminine name or form. If ever Śikhaṇḍin—the son of Drupada, born of woman—approach me weapon in hand, I will not look upon him with bow unbent. Such is my oath; by it I am bound.”
“By oath and ancient law I stand,
No shaft shall fly from my sure hand
Against the form that once was maid;
By this vow mine own honour’s made.
Let Dharma judge the course I take—
By true restraint the world I make.”
Sanjaya continued:
Hearing Bhīṣma’s steadfast vow, Duryodhana pondered, shifting like a hunter testing the wind. A stratagem rose in the dark chambers of his mind: if Bhīṣma will not smite one who was a woman, then that one might be set to face the grandsire and thus the stalemate of conscience might be his ruin. Yet even as this thought beguiled him, all were not blind to the grave peril of relying on oath and artifice against a foe counseled by Krishna.
Drona, grave and slow as a river’s depth, spoke then of warcraft and of the limits that age and duty lay upon him. Kripa and Asvatthaman pledged their powers in turn; Karna, pride like molten gold in his chest, declared his intent to rend the Pandava host in days few and brief. Each man’s pledge was a mirror of character—bold speech for bold heart.
Bhīṣma answered again, not in anger but in the cold, clear tone of one who has seen many seasons: that victory cannot be guaranteed by boasting. “War,” he said, “is woven of many threads. Even the strongest arm may meet a single arrow by Providence and fall. Count not on wrath or daring alone. Count instead on counsel, on formed ranks, on the sudden strike, and on the favour of heaven.”
“Boast as the trumpet may aloud,
But careful craft must steer the cloud.
Brave speech is wind; a plan is keel—
By cunning craft the battle’s wheel.”
Thereupon Duryodhana, inflamed and impatient for deeds not words, bade the commanders prepare their rites and stratagems. He ordered embassies, scouts, and prayers; he sought to blend the loud proof of arms with the subtle tricks of kings. Throughout the palace and the field his commands were urgent, for he feared the slow hour in which counsel might fail him.
Vaiśaṁpāyana said:
So closed that night’s council: the mighty had spoken and vows had been proclaimed. Each man retired with his counsel and his secret, and the drumbeat of destiny drew nearer. For in the hearts of the Kuru princes there lay resolve and fear, and in the camp of the Pāṇḍavas the conches would soon answer—until the two great hosts met upon the plain and the question of dharma itself was tested by spear and arrow.