novelraw Arc 6 - Jatugriha - Chapter 3 - Escape into the Forest
Arc 6 - Jatugriha - Chapter 3 - Escape into the Forest
Vaiśampāyana said:
At this time, Vidura—ever watchful, ever wise—sent a trusted man into the forest. This man was pure of heart, devoted in service, and well-skilled in discretion. Quietly, he made his way to where the Pāṇḍavas were concealed.
There, on the sacred banks of the Gaṅgā, he found them with Kuntī, engaged in measuring the river’s depth, seeking a way to cross.
For Vidura, who had long discerned Duryodhana’s wicked design through his spies, had already made full preparations to ensure their deliverance.
Approaching Yudhiṣṭhira in secret, the man spoke:
“O son of Dharma, I am sent by Vidura.
Know me by the signs he gave.
He said: ‘Neither the eater of straw and wood, nor the drier of dew,
Can burn those who dwell deep in the forest’s hollow.
He who protects himself wisely escapes death.’
Thus you shall know I am truly his messenger.
And Vidura bids me further say:
‘O son of Kuntī, you shall conquer in battle:
Karṇa, Duryodhana and his brothers, and Śakuni the deceitful.
Victory shall yet be yours.’
Behold this boat, built by trusted craftsmen—
Strong as thought, swift as the tempest,
Adorned with flags, fitted with hidden engines.
It waits to carry you across these waters,
Away from the snares of your enemies.”
The Pāṇḍavas, still burdened with sorrow but comforted by this faithful messenger, entered the vessel with their mother. The man, steering the boat with skill, spoke again:
“Vidura, though far, hath embraced you in thought,
Smelling your heads as a father to his children.
As you begin this sacred journey, remain ever vigilant,
For danger always follows those whom fate guards for greatness.”
Thus they crossed the sacred Gaṅgā, cutting silently through its dark waters, unseen by foes.
Upon reaching the far bank, the man raised his voice in soft exclamation:
“Jaya!”
Victory!
Having delivered them to safety, he took his leave and returned silently to Hastināpura, bearing word of their deliverance to Vidura.
And the Pāṇḍavas, now beyond the burning house, beyond the city’s grief,
Began their flight into the forest —
Swift, secret, and protected still by dharma.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When the night passed and dawn returned, a great multitude of the people gathered once more at the site of the burned house, eager to behold the remains of the sons of Pāṇḍu.
As the flames died, the charred structure revealed its dreadful truth. The house, now reduced to blackened ruin, was seen to have been constructed of lacquer and resin.
They found among the ashes the scorched body of Purocana.
The people wept aloud, crying:
“Alas! This was the wicked scheme of sinful Duryodhana,
Crafted to destroy the innocent heirs of Pāṇḍu.
Surely, Dhṛtarāṣṭra knew all—
Else how could his son act so boldly?
If the king were ignorant, would Duryodhana dare such cruelty?
Even Bhīṣma, son of Śāntanu,
Even Droṇa, Kripa, Vidura, and the elders—
None spoke out against this adharma!
All have remained silent as dharma was trampled.”
Thus did the citizens cry, bitter with grief and disillusionment.
Seeking some trace of the Pāṇḍavas, they searched through the ashes. There they discovered the remains of the Niṣāda woman and her five sons—burned to death by misfortune, mistaken now for the princes.
“These must be the bodies of Kuntī and her children,” they lamented.
Meanwhile, Vidura’s miner, careful in his craft, quietly covered the mouth of the tunnel with ashes, hiding all trace of the escape.
The citizens then sent word to Hastināpura:
“O King, thy wish has been fulfilled.
The Pāṇḍavas, with their mother and Purocana,
Have perished in the fire.”
When these tidings reached Dhṛtarāṣṭra, he wept aloud with feigned sorrow:
“Alas! My brother Pandu, so noble in life,
Dies again this day—
For his sons, heroes of virtue,
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And their mother have been consumed by fire!
Go quickly to Vāraṇāvata,
Perform their funeral rites.
Let their bones be gathered and sanctified.
Let every rite, every act of charity,
Be done in their honour with wealth and reverence.
Let friends, relatives, and elders proceed to mourn their loss.”
Thus did Dhṛtarāṣṭra, speaking words of grief,
Mask the cruel satisfaction that stirred within.
The world mourned the death of the Pāṇḍavas—
Unknowing that they yet lived,
Hidden by fate, preserved by dharma,
Moving toward destinies yet to unfold.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Dhṛtarāṣṭra, son of Ambikā, spoke these words, he led his relatives to the banks of the river to perform the final rites.
There, surrounded by the Kuru elders,
They offered libations of water to the souls of the supposed dead.
With tears flowing and voices breaking, they cried aloud:
“O Yudhiṣṭhira! Prince of the Kuru race!
O Bhīma! O mighty Phālguna!
O Nakula and Sahadeva, the twins!
O Kuntī, mother of heroes!”
Thus did the Kuru family weep,
And the citizens joined them in lamentation,
Pouring their sorrow into the sacred waters.
Only Vidura, though outwardly solemn, shed not many tears—
For he alone knew the truth.
Meanwhile, the Pāṇḍavas, with their mother Kuntī, journeyed on—
Now fully beyond Vāraṇāvata’s reach,
A company of six, strong in resolve though wearied in body.
They reached once more the sacred Gaṅgā.
Aided by the skilled boatmen’s arms, the river’s swift current, and the breath of favourable wind,
They crossed its broad waters quickly.
Leaving the boat behind,
They turned southward into the darkness of night,
Navigating by the silent language of stars.
Their path led them into a dense and forbidding forest.
Exhaustion crept upon them—
Hunger gnawed their bellies,
Sleep pressed heavy on their eyes,
And the wilderness offered no rest.
Then Yudhiṣṭhira, ever mindful of his duty to lead, spoke softly to Bhīma:
“Brother, what suffering can be greater than this?
We are lost in these dark woods, uncertain of direction,
Our limbs fail us, our strength wanes.
We know not if Purocana, that wretch, has perished in the fire.
How shall we continue unseen by foes who may yet pursue?
You alone, O Bhīma, are our refuge—
Strong and swift as the wind.
As before, take us upon your mighty frame and carry us onward.”
Hearing these words, Bhīmasena, mighty-armed son of Vāyu, did not hesitate.
Once again he lifted his mother upon his shoulders,
Placed the twins upon his flanks,
Took Yudhiṣṭhira in one arm, Arjuna in the other,
And like a great mountain in motion,
He strode through the forest with the swiftness of a storm.
Crushing branches, bending trees,
His every footstep sank into the earth like thunder.
Thus did Bhīma, Vṛkodara,
Bear his family deeper into the night,
Their lives still sheltered beneath dharma’s unseen hand.
Vaiśampāyana said:
As mighty Bhīma moved through the dense forest, the earth trembled beneath his weight.
The trees shook and swayed,
Their branches clashing against his broad chest,
Their blossoms and fruits falling in showers beneath his steps.
His thighs drove gusts of wind before him—
Like the storms that roar during the fierce months of Jyaiṣṭha and Āṣāḍha.
The woods moaned beneath his march,
Creepers snapped, giant trunks splintered,
The very forest seemed to open a path before him.
Even as a furious tusker of sixty years,
In full rut, dripping with ichor,
Crushes trees beneath its tread,
So did Bhīma, endued with the speed of Garuḍa and the force of the wind-god Marut,
Carry his family through the wilderness.
But such was the force of his movement that even his brothers and mother, carried upon him, grew faint from the surge of motion.
Again and again they crossed swift rivers,
Swimming through difficult streams,
Disguising themselves as they fled,
Ever watchful of pursuit from the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra.
Upon his mighty shoulders Bhīma bore his mother Kuntī,
Delicate of frame, yet noble of heart,
Across uneven riverbanks,
Where stones cut sharp and waters ran treacherous.
As evening descended, Bhīma reached a dreadful wood:
A desolate place,
Where fruits and roots were scarce,
Where birds shrieked and beasts howled with terrible cries.
Twilight thickened into darkness,
The wind rose in wild howls,
Tearing down trees, toppling creepers,
Scattering dry leaves like fragments of ruin.
The forest moaned with the voices of unseen creatures,
And dread filled the night.
Exhausted by fatigue, thirst, and sleeplessness,
The Pandavas could go no further.
There, amidst the haunted grove,
They sat down upon the earth,
Weary, parched, and burdened with care.
Then Kuntī, her voice trembling, said to her sons:
“I am your mother, O my children,
And yet, sitting in your midst, I burn with thirst!
Water! My lips crack; my tongue is dry.
O sons, bring me water, or I perish!”
Hearing these words, Bhīma’s heart swelled with tender grief.
His great love for his mother stirred his soul.
Resolving once again to bear the burden alone,
He prepared to rise.
Vaiśampāyana said:
As Bhīma moved through that desolate, endless forest, searching for water, he at last beheld a great banyan tree, its wide branches spreading like a canopy of mercy.
There, beneath its broad shade,
He carefully set down his mother and brothers.
Turning to them, he said:
“Rest here, O beloved ones.
I hear the cries of water birds nearby—
Surely a lake lies close.
I shall fetch water for you.”
Yudhiṣṭhira, ever calm even in suffering, softly replied:
“Go, Bhīma.”
Obedient, Bhīma followed the sound of the birds.
Soon he came upon a clear lake.
There he bathed and quenched his own thirst.
Then, thinking only of his brothers and mother,
He dipped his upper garment into the cool waters,
Soaking it fully to carry moisture back to them.
Swiftly, retracing his steps across four long miles,
He returned to where they lay.
But what he saw struck his heart with grief.
There lay his mother and brothers,
Asleep upon the harsh, bare earth,
Exhausted, hungry, and shelterless.
Bhīma’s heart trembled; his breath grew heavy;
He sighed like a great serpent disturbed in its lair.
And with tears streaming, he lamented aloud:
“O wretched fate!
To see my noble brothers lying thus on naked ground—
What greater pain can befall me?
Alas! They who once reclined on softest silken beds,
In Vāraṇāvata’s halls adorned with jewels,
Now lie upon this cruel earth.
Behold my mother Kuntī!
Sister of mighty Vāsudeva,
Daughter of Kuntirāja,
Daughter-in-law of Vichitravīrya,
Wife of the virtuous king Pāṇḍu—
Delicate, adorned with every auspicious mark,
Fit to sleep upon couches of gold—
Yet now she rests here, weary, upon unyielding soil.
O sorrow! She who bore us by Dharma, Indra, and Marut—
Who knew only royal palaces—
Lies now as one abandoned, upon this cruel earth!
See Yudhiṣṭhira—he who deserves sovereignty over the three worlds—
Sleeping like a common man, spent and powerless!
Arjuna, cloud-dark in hue, peerless among warriors,
Sleeps like any ordinary wanderer!
The twins, Nakula and Sahadeva,
Fair as the twin Aśvins among the gods,
Lie as helpless mortals upon the forest floor!
O fate! What sight could pierce my heart more deeply than this?”
Thus did Bhīma weep, his mighty heart breaking with love and anguish,
As the forest winds whispered around them,
And destiny continued its unseen course.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Seated beneath the sheltering banyan, Bhīma reflected with a burning heart.
“He who has no envious, wicked kin,
Lives at peace, like a solitary tree in a village—
Alone, yet venerated, its fruits and leaves untouched by rivalry,
Blessed by its singularity.
And yet, he who is surrounded by many relatives—
All virtuous, heroic, and strong—
Lives even more happily,
For they stand like mighty trees in a forest,
Each sheltering the other, growing in strength together.
But we — sons of Pāṇḍu —
Driven into exile by the cruel Dhṛtarāṣṭra and his wicked sons,
Have barely escaped death by fire,
Saved only by fate and Vidura’s wisdom.
Now, weary and shelterless, we rest beneath this tree,
While our enemies sit in false triumph.
O sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra! Enjoy your brief moment!
Fortune smiles upon you—for now.
But know this—
You yet live only because Yudhiṣṭhira, my noble brother,
Has not commanded your deaths.
Were it not for his restraint,
I would even now rise in my wrath,
And send you all—Duryodhana, your brothers, Karṇa, Śakuni, and all your wicked kin—
To the dark abode of Yama!"
As these fierce thoughts churned within him,
Bhīma, of mighty arms, clenched his fists,
Sighing deeply, his breath burning like smouldering coals.
Like a fire momentarily quenched yet ready to blaze,
His anger surged and fell again.
Glancing once more upon his brothers and mother sleeping in exhaustion,
Bhīma said to himself:
“Perhaps there lies a town nearby.
My brothers, worn by thirst and fatigue, now sleep.
I shall stay awake through the night,
To guard them, and fetch water when they awaken refreshed.”
Thus resolved, Bhīma sat there like a mountain at rest—
Silent, powerful, and watchful—
Guarding his beloved family as the winds whispered through the trees,
And the shadows of the great forest deepened around them.