novelraw Arc 6 - Jatugriha - Chapter 1 - The Evil Plot in Vāraṇāvata
Arc 6 - Jatugriha - Chapter 1 - The Evil Plot in Vāraṇāvata
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then those sons of ambition, stirred by envy and fear—the cruel Duryodhana, Duhśāsana of fierce heart, Karṇa of the suta caste, and Śakuni of vile counsel, son of Suvala—met in secret to plot their darkest deed. With false smiles and loyal speech, they veiled their minds, but their purpose was murder.
And that purpose, O King, was this:
To build a dwelling beautiful as the moon’s palace, fragrant and pleasing to the eye—but made of lac and ghee, fat and resin, and all that feeds the flame. A house of death clothed in delight.
Therein they would send Kuntī and her five sons, and under pretense of honour and exile, burn them alive.
This evil plan they laid before Dhṛtarāṣṭra.
And though blind in eye, his heart saw clearly—and he consented.
But among the assembly of that court, one alone saw the truth writ upon their faces, as a sage reads stars in a silent sky.
Vidura, wise among the wise, born of a maid and Dharma himself, read the language of their eyes and knew the fire they meant to kindle.
O Janamejaya, hear now what the knower of hearts did then.
He approached Kuntī, mother of heroes, and in words veiled with double meaning, he warned her of the noose that had been cast.
He said:
"The forest path is long, and not all houses are homes.
When walls are waxen and gifts are thick with ghee, beware.
The path of safety lies not in the center, but beneath it.
Go not where the lamp glows too bright, but seek the way of shadows."
Kuntī, whose wisdom matched her grief, understood.
In silence she received his words, and that night, with her sons—mighty Yudhiṣṭhira, Bhīma the strong, Arjuna the peerless archer, and the twins Nakula and Sahadeva—they stepped into the boat Vidura had made ready. It was bound not with rope, but with the silent resolve of dharma.
Carried across the dark waters of Gaṅgā,
They vanished into the veil of forest.
At Vāraṇāvata, the house of lac stood waiting.
And when the moment came, the fire was lit.
Within its chambers, by fateful mistake or providence, a Niṣāda woman and her children had taken shelter. They, not the sons of Kuntī, perished in that cruel blaze.
And Purocana, the architect of death, was consumed by the very fire he had prepared.
Flames danced upon lacquered walls,
Smoke rose like false prayers to the sky.
The people wept—believing the Pāṇḍavas dead,
And the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra rejoiced in secret.
To Hastināpura went the messengers, breathless with tidings:
“O King, your wish is fulfilled. The forest house is ash.
The sons of Pāṇḍu and their mother are no more.
The kingdom lies unbroken in your son’s grasp. Rejoice!”
Dhṛtarāṣṭra heard—and wept with dry eyes.
He mourned with trembling voice and heavy words.
He summoned Bhīṣma, Vidura, and the elders of the court,
And they performed the final rites with all solemnity.
But none knew that in the shadows beyond Gaṅgā,
The true heirs of the Kuru throne walked on, alive.
Guided by fate and Vidura’s wisdom,
Sheltered by forest, and preserved by dharma.
Thus was the great deceit turned upon its masters.
Thus was the flame denied its prey.
Thus began the exile of the sons of Pāṇḍu—
Not as mourners, but as warriors waiting for destiny’s call.
Janamejaya said:
“O best of Brāhmaṇas,
My heart burns with curiosity like fire fed by ghee.
I desire to hear in full the tale of that cruel act—
The burning of the waxen house, and the Pandavas’ narrow escape.
Speak, O sage, for I am eager.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Hear now, O tiger among kings, what befell in those days of growing unrest.
When Duryodhana, son of the blind king, beheld Bhīmasena's might—unmatched among men—and Arjuna’s mastery of arms, like Indra in human form, his heart grew heavy with fear and malice.
Karṇa, born of the blazing Sun, and Śakuni, master of deceit, then counseled Duryodhana in dark designs.
They laid snares, devised poison, set traps of cunning,
But the sons of Pāṇḍu—guided by Vidura’s foresight—
Foiled each attempt in silence,
And spoke no word of vengeance.
In the streets of Hastināpura, the people murmured.
In courtyards, near wells, beneath shade trees in the market squares, voices rose:
“Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, is the true heir.
Though born of a blind king, Dhṛtarāṣṭra did not inherit the throne—
How can he now pass it to his son?
Bhīṣma, the grand old Kuru lion,
Having vowed celibacy, seeks not the crown.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Let us install Yudhiṣṭhira, wise and kind,
Trained in Veda and war alike,
A ruler fit to uphold the dignity of the Kurus.”
Their praise grew like fire in dry grass.
And the envy in Duryodhana’s heart—fanned by Karṇa’s bitterness and Śakuni’s guile—began to blaze.
Yet Yudhiṣṭhira, hearing these whispers, remained humble.
“He bowed to Bhīṣma with reverence,
Honoured Dhṛtarāṣṭra and his sons,
And offered respect in every word and deed,
Like the moonlight soothing the night.”
But the threat had taken root.
Duryodhana, sensing that the love of the people could crown Yudhiṣṭhira king, resolved with his wicked allies to destroy not only his cousin’s claim—but his very life.
Thus was born the plot of the Jatugṛha.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Duryodhana, the wretched son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, heard the voices of the citizens—honouring Yudhiṣṭhira, blessing his future rule—his heart burned with grief and fury. Their words struck him like barbed arrows, for they passed over his name like wind over barren soil.
Consumed by the fire of envy, Duryodhana went at once to his father.
He found the king alone, seated in his hall, wrapped in silence and thought. Bowing low in seeming reverence, the prince then raised his voice with trembling restraint.
“O father,” he said, “I have heard with my own ears
The whispers of those who leave our gates.
They name Yudhiṣṭhira king, not thee, not me—
Not even the noble Bhīṣma, whose strength holds up the house of Kuru.
They seek to crown the son of Pāṇḍu—
And in their hearts, the throne already rests upon his brow.”
With growing heat in his voice, Duryodhana continued:
“Bhīṣma will not oppose this. He has foresworn the crown.
The people know this, and their favour grows bold.
Once Yudhiṣṭhira ascends the throne,
What shall be left for us, O king?
Pandu once claimed the kingdom through his merit—
But thou, though his elder, were passed over due to thy blindness.
If now Pandu’s son rules as heir, then so shall his son after him,
And the sons of his sons, while our line is cast into shadow.”
Then, rising to plea and warning, he said:
“Shall we beg for place in our own house?
Shall we live on the mercy of our cousins,
Dependent for food, ignored by all men?
Nay, O King, this must not be.
Act now with wisdom, ere fate harden into law.
Let not our children grow in a house not their own.”
Thus, Duryodhana stirred the heart of Dhṛtarāṣṭra,
Not with reason, but with the poisoned fruit of fear—
A fear not of loss, but of insignificance.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When King Dhṛtarāṣṭra, whose vision was not of the eyes but of memory and thought, heard these words from Duryodhana, his heart was shaken. The teachings of Kanika—the fox-hearted minister—rose again in his mind like smoke rising from old embers. The fire of sorrow and doubt began to stir within him.
Seeing this wavering, Duryodhana, Karṇa, Śakuni of crooked thought, and Duḥśāsana the ruthless gathered once more in counsel.
Said Duryodhana:
“O father, send the sons of Pāṇḍu to Vāraṇāvata—
A festive city, rich in rites and revels.
Let it be done with subtlety, not force.
Once they are afar, there shall be no fear.”
Dhṛtarāṣṭra paused. His soul stirred like a boat caught between two tides.
He said:
“Pāṇḍu, my brother, noble and just,
Gave me all—kingdom, wealth, and regard—though he earned them by merit.
He never kept for himself the joys of rule.
How then can I, for his son, show ingratitude so deep?
Yudhiṣṭhira, too, is righteous and beloved,
Accomplished in the śāstras, gentle to all.
The people love him. His name is sung in homes and temples.
Our soldiers and ministers once served Pāṇḍu—
Their sons remember his kindness still.
Shall they now see his son wronged and stand idle?
No, my son—such treachery will make them rise against us.
They may slay us and our kin in righteous fury!”
But Duryodhana, ever insistent, replied:
“All that you say is true, O father.
But we must look to the future, where danger grows.
The hearts of men are won not only by virtue,
But by wealth, honour, and power displayed.
We have the treasury in our hands.
The ministers bend to our will.
Give gifts to the people, honour them well—
And they will forget even the noblest dead.
Send Kuntī and her sons to Vāraṇāvata,
Not by command, but by favour—
As if granting them a royal tour,
A show of grace, not exile.
Once I have secured the throne,
Let them return if they must—
But not until our power is rooted.”
Thus did the blind king listen to his son—
Blinded not only in sight, but in judgment.
Thus was sown the plot that would lead the Pandavas
To a palace built not of wood and stone,
But of ghee, resin, lac, and hidden flame.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Dhṛtarāṣṭra, moved by desire yet shackled by dharma, sighed and spoke:
“O Duryodhana, this very thought
Has long lived in the silence of my heart.
Yet I dared not give it voice—
For fear of adharma and its fruits.
Know this, my son—
Neither Bhīṣma, nor Droṇa, nor Kṛpa, nor Vidura—
Those pillars of the Kuru house,
Will ever approve such treachery.
In their eyes, we and the sons of Pāṇḍu are equal.
They are guardians of dharma, not men swayed by love or fear.
If we were to wrong the Pāṇḍavas so—
Shall not the wrath of the wise, the judgment of the world,
And the curse of fate itself fall upon us?”
But Duryodhana, ever resolute, replied:
“Fear not, O King.
Bhīṣma, though mighty, is bound by his vow of neutrality.
He will not act against us—nor for them.
Aśvatthāman, son of Droṇa, is mine.
And where the son stands, there too the father stands.
Kripa, brother-in-law to Droṇa and uncle to Aśvatthāman,
Will not abandon kin for cause.
As for Kṣattri—your wise Vidura—he is clever and subtle,
But he lives upon your favour.
Though his heart may lie with the sons of Pāṇḍu,
What can he truly do alone?
Exile the Pāṇḍavas to Vāraṇāvata—without fear,
And let it be done today itself.
Let the house be readied; let the path be cleared.
O Father, relieve me of this fire that scorches my sleep,
That strikes my heart like a poisoned dart.”
Thus Duryodhana spoke—not with wisdom, but with the desperation of a prince
Who feared being eclipsed by righteousness and love.
And Dhṛtarāṣṭra, though torn by doubt,
Began to yield.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Duryodhana, cunning in mind and resolute in ambition, began his work of slow conquest—not by war, but by wealth. Alongside his brothers, he spread gifts like seeds upon the soil of public favour, offering honours and riches to win hearts to his cause.
Meanwhile, clever councillors, instructed by Dhṛtarāṣṭra, began to speak often and glowingly of the distant town of Vāraṇāvata.
They said:
“O lords of the court, the festival of Paśupati has begun!
There is none like it upon the earth.
The people gather like rivers joining the ocean.
Music, garlands, jewels, and joy abound—
The whole city gleams like Indra’s heaven!”
Thus they painted the charm of that place with words as sweet as honey, yet laced with poison. And while they spoke, the hearts of the Pāṇḍavas stirred.
“O King,” they thought, “let us go and behold this wondrous festival.”
When Dhṛtarāṣṭra saw their curiosity ripen, he, too, played his part.
He said:
“My sons often speak of Vāraṇāvata,
That peerless town of joy and delight.
Go then, dear children, if it pleases you—
Take your friends, your followers, your treasures.
Like the celestials at Nandana's grove, enjoy yourselves freely.
Shower gifts upon Brāhmaṇas and musicians;
Taste every pleasure, then return to Hastināpura in peace.”
But Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, saw the truth beneath the gold.
He understood the danger concealed within sweetness.
Yet being without support, surrounded by enemies in the court, he bowed his head in humility.
“So be it,” he said.
Then, with solemn grace, Yudhiṣṭhira addressed the elders:
Bhīṣma, the unconquerable; Vidura, the wise; Droṇa, the preceptor of princes; Kripa, the son of Śaradvat; Somadatta and Vālhika; and Aśvatthāman, fire-eyed and restless—he addressed them all, along with Brāhmaṇas, ṛṣis, and the noble queen Gāndhārī.
In a voice calm and steady, he said:
“At the bidding of King Dhṛtarāṣṭra,
We, the sons of Pāṇḍu, depart for Vāraṇāvata.
With friends and companions we go to see this festive gathering.
Bless us now, O revered ones—
That with prosperity we may return untouched by sin.”
And the elders, unaware of the shadow behind the veil, blessed them with joy.
“May the gods of the five elements protect you.
May no harm come upon your path.
May your journey bear fruit in virtue and peace.”
With these blessings and rituals complete, the Pāṇḍavas set out—
Having first offered sacred rites for the attainment of their rightful kingdom.
And so they departed, toward a city dressed for celebration,
Unaware that it had been built for fire.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When the sons of Pāṇḍu departed for Vāraṇāvata, King Dhṛtarāṣṭra having given his consent, Duryodhana—wretched in heart but elated in scheme—felt great joy. The path to power, in his eyes, lay now free of obstacle, if only the plan could be sealed in silence and flame.
Then, summoning his most trusted agent, Purocana, in secret council, Duryodhana took his right hand with feigned warmth and spoke with an oily voice:
“O Purocana, thou art my own soul in thought and trust.
This world—its riches, throne, and glory—belongs to us.
And as it is mine, so it shall be thine.
Therefore guard it, protect it, and destroy our enemies by cunning.
I entrust thee with a deed not for weak hearts,
But for one born of fire and guile.
The Pāṇḍavas, with their mother Kuntī,
Have gone to Vāraṇāvata, under my father’s command,
To rejoice in festivity—but we shall turn joy into ashes.”
Then Duryodhana spoke the plan with vile clarity:
“Take thee now a swift chariot drawn by mules.
Reach Vāraṇāvata before them and build a splendid palace—
Four-cornered, luxurious, fit for kings—near the old śāstra-gṛha, the arsenal.
Let it gleam with beauty and wealth,
But let it hide within its bones the breath of death.
Use thy craft:
Mix earth with clarified butter, oil, and fat.
Line the walls with lac and resin,
Embed the beams with dry hemp and oiled wood.
Let every pillar whisper to the flame.
But let not a trace show to the eye.
Make it a trap veiled in elegance,
A funeral pyre dressed as a bridal home.
Furnish it well—beds, seats, chariots of fine make—
So that even Dhṛtarāṣṭra may see no flaw.
And let the people of Vāraṇāvata suspect nothing,
Until the work is done.
When the Pāṇḍavas dwell therein, safe in their trust,
When sleep enfolds them and suspicion dies,
Then—ignite the outer gate.
Let the fire rise not from within but without,
And let all say it was a cruel accident of fate.”
To all this, Purocana—servant of ambition,
Said, “So be it.”
And without delay, he departed in a chariot drawn by swift mules.
Reaching Vāraṇāvata ahead of the princes, he began his devil’s labor—
Constructing that house of beauty and death,
As per the design of Duryodhana’s wicked heart.