novelraw Arc 8 - Part 2 - Vaivahika - Chapter 4 - Drupada’s Worry
Arc 8 - Part 2 - Vaivahika - Chapter 4 - Drupada’s Worry
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus addressed by his noble father, Dṛṣṭadyumna, the lion of the Lunar race, bowed with cheer and reverence, and began to recount in detail the marvel he had witnessed.
Dṛṣṭadyumna said:
“O King, he who bent the unyielding bow,
Whose arms were red like fire’s glow—
Clad in deer-skin, with eyes flame-bright,
Like some god veiled in mortal light,
Is the one who brought the mark down from the sky—
The one before whom even monarchs sigh.
As soon as the mark was struck and Draupadī cast her garland, that youth was surrounded by ascetic-souled Brahmanas, their water-pots and deer-skins lifted high in praise. They offered him worship as if to Indra, for his feat had been divine. And he, though youthful in form, bore the presence of a sovereign among sages.
Another rose, as fierce as death,
With roaring strength and lion’s breath—
He plucked a tree from earth's own hold,
And hurled it like a mace of gold.
Against a sea of wrathful kings,
He stood like Yama on storming wings.
Seeing those two, like twin blazing suns, the kings drew back, stunned by might and majesty. The crowd parted as Draupadī followed them—she, fire-born and lotus-eyed, walking humbly behind the deer-skin-clad youth, like Lakṣmī trailing Viṣṇu through the worlds.
They made their way from the field of warriors to the quiet outskirts of the city, to the dwelling of a humble potter. And there sat a woman, bright as flame, wise and serene—surely their mother, O king.
Around her sat four warriors strong,
Each like Agni with battle-song—
But when the youth and maiden bowed,
She smiled, serene, though low and bowed.
I beheld how they paid her reverent homage, and how she welcomed the maiden into her lap as if she were her own daughter. Then, with no pride or hesitation, those heroes, now five, took up their mendicant garb again and departed for alms, leaving the princess among them.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Some time after, as twilight fell across the sky and the sounds of the city grew still, those five heroes returned to the humble dwelling. Krishnaa, the daughter of Drupada, now radiant with quiet dignity, received from them the alms they had gathered.
With grace in her hands and devotion in heart,
She first offered a share to the gods with art.
Then to Brahmanas she gave in gift,
That sacred act their spirits lift.
Of what remained, a portion she served
Unto Kunti, who all her life had swerved
Not once from dharma, calm and bright—
A mother radiant in the evening light.
To the five brothers she offered the rest, dividing equally among them, and only afterward did she eat, taking the last portion herself in silent humility.
And then, as the stars rose over the city of Kampilya, they all lay down to sleep. Their bed was simple—a layer of kuśa grass covered with worn deer-skins. Krishnaa, though a princess and fire-born, lay content at the line of their feet, as if she were the very pratiśayya (foot-cushion) of the sons of Dharma.
Not once did she wince nor in pride retreat,
Though she lay low at her husbands’ feet.
For her mind was pure, her spirit free—
A flame of chastity, humility, and dignity.
Before sleep took them, they spoke in deep voices—thunderclouds gathered in low murmuring storm. Their talk, though guarded, revealed their hearts.
They spoke of war and blades and kings,
Of dharma’s law and battle-rings.
Their words bore weight, their manner plain—
No merchant's tale, nor hermit's strain.
Not Brahmanas, nor common-born,
But Kshatriyas—lion-hearted, battle-worn.
Dṛṣṭadyumna, hidden in silence nearby, listened. His heart stirred with surging clarity. He turned now to his father, and with quiet assurance, spoke.
“O father, I am certain—the flame yet burns.
Our hopes, once distant, now return.
These are no strangers, no wandering men.
They are the sons of Pritha—alive again.
That youth who bent the thunderous bow,
Who struck the mark with perfect flow,
That lion-hearted archer is none but he—
Arjuna, son of Kunti, born to victory.
And by his side the mighty Bhima stood,
Uprooting trees as if they were wood.
Their speech was noble, firm and grand—
No common men, but of royal band.”
And as he spoke, a subtle joy awoke in the heart of king Drupada.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Hearing the words of his son Dṛṣṭadyumna, king Drupada, that lion among monarchs, was filled with joy beyond measure. The seed of his long-cherished hope had begun to sprout. His heart stirred with anticipation, and he called for his royal priest, a Brāhmaṇa learned in the Vedas and skilled in diplomacy.
He spoke to him with grave delight, saying, “Go swiftly, O wise one. Approach those noble youths who dwell in the potter’s abode. Inquire with gentle words—are they indeed the sons of Pandu, the friend of my soul, my brother in dharma? Confirm their lineage. For if it be true that Kunti’s sons have returned to light, then my vow is fulfilled, and my daughter’s hand has found its destined home.”
The priest bowed and departed, bearing the message of the king with humility and eloquence. Arriving at the abode, he beheld the sons of Pṛthā, radiant even in disguise, their forms like embers hidden beneath ashes, their bearing noble, their presence serene.
With joined palms and words of reverence, he addressed them:
“Ye who are born of greatness and crowned with modesty,
The king of Panchāla, Drupada of mighty ancestry,
Sends word of honor and joyful esteem—
Like the moon who finds his reflection in the stream.
He saw the feat performed, the bow drawn like a whisper of thunder,
The mark felled by the hand whose aim no foe could sunder.
And joy surged through his veins like the rising of the tide—
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
For the archer he long dreamed of had taken his daughter as bride.
O heroes, if indeed ye are the sons of Pandu, speak it openly. Pandu was to Drupada as the second half of his soul. In joy and sorrow, in sacrifice and war, they stood united. Long has the king cherished the hope that his daughter—fair Draupadī, born of fire and destined for greatness—would be wedded to Arjuna, that mighty-armed one, foremost of archers.
If this union now blossoms, O sons of noble fame,
Then dharma is fulfilled, and virtue bears your name.
Nothing could be more worthy, nothing more true,
Than that Draupadī’s garland should fall on you.”
So spoke the priest, with hands folded and gaze lowered, awaiting their reply. The air itself seemed to hush, as if the wind too paused in reverence for the unfolding fate of the Kurus and Panchālas.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Having spoken thus, the Brāhmaṇa priest sat in silence, awaiting a reply—humble in posture, yet bearing the authority of a king’s voice. Beholding his reverent composure, Yudhishthira, wise son of Dharma, turned to mighty Bhīma and commanded in a voice gentle yet firm:
“Let water be brought for washing his feet, and the Arghya offered. He is the envoy of Drupada, king of the Lunar race, and thus deserves our highest reverence. Let him be honored as one would honor the sacred fire.”
At these words, Vṛkodara rose like a roaring lion calmed into ritual duty. He fetched the sanctified water and presented the Arghya with care, offering it with folded hands. The priest, accepting the homage, was pleased in heart and seated himself comfortably among them.
Then Yudhishthira spoke—his voice composed like still water, yet ringing with truth:
“O venerable one, the king of Panchāla gave his daughter
Not as a free gift, but through a trial of strength and skill.
A dower was fixed, the mark was set, the path made clear—
And it was through dharma and deed that the maiden was won.
The bow was strung, the mark was pierced—such a feat, O Brāhmaṇa, answers every question of lineage, valor, and worth. The prince who claimed Kṛṣṇā did so not with words but with action. Let King Drupada understand—no weakling, no man of low birth or poor arms, could have performed what was done this day.
The law of swayamvara has been fulfilled,
And Fate has chosen as it must.
Why then should the king lament
That which Dharma’s hand has already sealed?
This maiden of radiant virtue, whose form was born of yajña and fire, has gone to one whose strength equals his righteousness. Nothing now remains to question or regret.”
As Yudhishthira concluded, even as the sage’s calm words still echoed in the room, another royal messenger entered swiftly, bearing joyful tidings. Bowing low, he declared:
“The nuptial feast is prepared.
The house is adorned, the rites await.
Let the bearers of destiny come forth—
The daughter of fire shall meet her fate.”
And so, the signs of divine consent gathered like fragrant winds from all directions. The sacred union, long ordained in heaven, now awaited its earthly consecration.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Then the messenger, bowing low, spoke with a voice of sweet urgency:
“The king of Panchāla hath prepared
A sacred feast of joy and light.
For the bridegroom’s kin the tables wait,
The hall is decked, the torches bright.
Come, O noble ones, when your rites are done—
Delay not this moment that fate has spun.”
He pointed to chariots standing near—glorious cars adorned with garlands of golden lotuses, harnessed to horses of celestial strain. Their bodies shone like fire-polished brass; their wheels whispered soft hymns to the earth.
“These steeds, O sons of Dharma,” said he,
“Have been yoked by royal hands.
Climb now, ye tigers among men,
For Krishna's hour of wedding stands.”
Then, as commanded by custom and inner fire, the sons of Pāṇḍu dismissed the honored priest with reverence, their heads bowed in gratitude. With careful hands, they seated Queen Kuntī and Draupadī upon one gleaming chariot, the two noble women radiant like the dawn and the dusk side by side.
Bhīma, Arjuna, and the twins ascended the others, chariots resounding beneath the weight of heroes. Their forms, clad in modest garments, belied the storm of energy within.
As Indra rides with the Maruts behind,
So moved the five with honor entwined.
The sky itself seemed to sing in praise
As they rode to the king of sacrificial days.
Thus did the sons of Pāṇḍu proceed—toward the house of Drupada, toward the moment ordained by flame and fate, as the drums of dharma echoed in the heart of Bhārata’s tale.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Meanwhile, O Bhārata, King Drupada, thoughtful and wise, heard from his priest the words spoken by Yudhishṭhira. And desiring to know with certainty the varṇa—the sacred order—of those heroic guests, the king caused a vast array of articles to be made ready.
He gathered the symbols of every walk of life:
Fruits of the forest and garlands sanctified,
Shields and ploughs, bows and arrows,
Fine cloths, armors bright, and cattle wide-eyed.
Implements of agriculture, tokens of trade, tools of artisans and hunters, chariots wrought in gold and steel, polished scimitars and tempered swords, shining darts and celestial missiles—all were displayed in a great pavilion.
Here lay the emblems of power and wealth,
Of kings and craftsmen, seers and herdsmen.
A kingdom's store—its soul displayed—
Awaiting the gaze of those five men.
And when the Pāṇḍavas arrived at the royal palace, accompanied by their radiant mother Kuntī and the dark-eyed Kṛṣṇā, they entered with grace and silence. The ladies of Drupada’s household received Kuntī with reverent joy, like stars greeting the returning moon. She was honored as a queen should be—by birth and by bearing.
Then, O king, those tigers among men entered the audience hall. Each bore the strength of a lion in his gait, broad of chest and long of arm, with eyes like the restless bull’s, and sinews that rippled beneath the bark and skin they wore.
Though clad as forest-dwellers, they shone
Like kings disguised in twilight tones.
The fire of kṣātra-tejas in their frame
Betrayed their noble, warlike names.
King Drupada, his son Dhṛṣṭadyumna, and the ministers of the court beheld them and were filled with delight, though they spoke no word of it yet. The five sat fearlessly, without arrogance or awkwardness, each choosing his seat with natural ease, according to age and custom. They sat like fire upon the altar—quiet, contained, but radiant with power.
Then came golden plates and silvered dishes, steaming with delicacies, carried by servants trained in royal ways. The heroes dined with measured appetite, honoring the feast but not indulging in excess.
After the meal, their eyes turned—not to luxury, nor to music or gems—but to the collection of weapons and armaments laid before them. Their hands touched swords with knowing familiarity. Their gaze lingered on the curve of bows and the temper of steel.
They passed by jewels and silken things,
But lingered long on warrior's wings—
The flight of arrow, the shaft of spear,
The hum of string was music to their ear.
Beholding this, Drupada, his son Dhṛṣṭadyumna, and the wise counselors of the realm felt joy rise like the dawn within their hearts. They now knew without doubt—these were not wandering Brahmanas.
“Not merchants nor herdsmen, not priests in disguise—
These are sons of kings with fire in their eyes.
This is the blood of Bhārata’s line,
Hidden by fate, revealed by sign.”
And thus did the royal court of the Panchālas rejoice, for in the house of the potter had been found the heirs of Pāṇḍu—the five who would shake the earth.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then the illustrious king of the Panchālas, moved by wonder and joy, addressed the noble Yudhiṣṭhira, still veiled in Brahmanical form. His words were soft but searching, filled with royal gravity and trembling hope.
“O noble one,” said Drupada, “are you indeed Brahmanas, born of sacred lineage and devoted to austerity? Or are you Kṣatriyas, lions among men, disguised in the bark of the ascetic? Or, perchance, are you gods, celestials who walk this earth in mortal guise, seeking the hand of my daughter, Krishna?
Speak, O guest of radiant face, for my heart is stirred with doubts. Shall we not rejoice once the veil is lifted? If the gods have indeed favored us, let that truth shine forth like the sun.
A lie doth not befit a king, nor one who claims a royal bride;
More noble than a hundred gifts is truth unshaken, truth not denied.
So speak, O youth of tranquil voice—
Declare thy name, and let our hearts rejoice.”
Then Yudhiṣṭhira, ever calm and luminous as the moon among stars, bowed gently, and with the weight of dharma upon his speech, gave reply:
“O king, be glad. Let no doubt dim the lamp of your joy. For the desire you have long cherished hath now been fulfilled.
We are Kṣatriyas, O mighty monarch,
Sons of Pāṇḍu, born in the line of Bharata.
Know me as Yudhiṣṭhira, eldest son of Kuntī,
And these are Bhīma and Arjuna—your daughter’s rightful lords.
The twins, Nakula and Sahadeva, and our mother Kuntī—the gentle queen—await in the dwelling where Krishna now rests. Be not anxious, O king of learning and sacrifice.
Thy daughter is like a lotus,
Moved not from mire but from lake to lake.
She hath passed from one noble line into another—
Unstained, unbroken, radiant with fate.
And now, O monarch, if it pleases thee, let thy heart rejoice and thy doubts dissolve like mist before the rising sun. We are thy kin and seek thy shelter. We stand not as strangers, but as sons returned to a house of honor.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Hearing those words of truth, King Drupada’s eyes welled with tears of joy, and in the ecstasy of recognition, his voice faltered. For a few moments, the monarch stood speechless, overwhelmed by the tides of fate and the fulfilment of his long-cherished hope.
At last, steadying his heart, that slayer of foes spoke with reverence to Yudhiṣṭhira and said, “O noble prince, how did you escape from the fiery death prepared for you at Vāraṇāvata?”
Then the son of Kuntī recounted in full the tale of treachery—the house of lac, the watchful Vidura, the secret tunnel, the night of fire, and their flight into the forest dressed as Brahmanas.
Hearing it all, King Drupada was filled with indignation and grief. With words sharp and sorrowful, he condemned Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s blindness and Duryodhana’s cruelty. Then, turning to Yudhiṣṭhira, he raised his hand in solemn assurance:
“O son of Dharma, scion of the Kuru race,
Thy father’s throne shall be restored by my grace.
In time, the wheel shall turn again—
And justice shall triumph over pain.”
Then Drupada, his doubts dispelled and his joy renewed, bade Kuntī, Kṛṣṇā, Bhīma, Arjuna, and the twins to remain in his royal house. With reverence and affection, he honored them daily, treating them as kin of the highest worth.
And when all was settled, the king of the Pāñcālas came once more to Yudhiṣṭhira and said:
“O mighty-armed one, now that fate hath declared itself, let thy brother Arjuna take the hand of my daughter Kṛṣṇā. The hour is auspicious, the fires are ready. Let the rite of marriage begin.”
Then Yudhiṣṭhira, calm and composed, gave reply:
“O king, hear now a truth known in our house. I too must marry, and so must Bhīma. Though it was Arjuna who won thy daughter, the boon hath been shared by destiny. It is not for us to change the will of our mother, nor the rule by which we brothers live in harmony.
Whatever jewel is won by one,
Is by all in dharma shared.
Such is our vow, unbroken still,
By fire and oath declared.
Thy daughter, O sovereign, shall be wife to us all. Let her take our hands, one after another, before the sacred fire. Thus shall she become our queen, not by passion, but by principle—honored, unshaken, and ever revered.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
But Drupada, that wise king of the Lunar line, was troubled in his heart. Though glad at his daughter’s union, he was shaken by the unheard-of proposal. And, turning to Yudhiṣṭhira, he raised a doubt, uttering these grave words:
“O scion of the Kuru race,
The śāstras proclaim that a man may take many wives—
But never, O son of Dharma,
Have they told of one woman given to many husbands.
This act—unseen, unspoken in the Vedas—
Is it not a path of sin?”
“O son of Kuntī, thou art noble and versed in dharma. Why then dost thou speak of what contradicts all custom and sacred law? Surely, thy mind—ever fixed on righteousness—cannot have strayed so far?”
Then Yudhiṣṭhira, calm like the sea untouched by wind, replied with quiet conviction:
“O king, indeed, the path of dharma is subtle—its flow is like that of a hidden stream. The ways of the righteous are not always bound by the letter of scripture, but by the spirit of truth and harmony. I speak no untruth. My heart does not delight in sin. My mother hath ordained this path—and in my heart too, it rings true.
Dharma is that which upholdeth the world—
Not always what is written or heard.
Let us seek the deeper root of virtue,
Not merely its leaf and word.
Be not anxious, O king. In this there is no sin. Let thy doubts be soothed, for what we speak is neither against justice nor divine will.”
Then Drupada, still unsure, yet respectful of the prince’s conviction, spoke with deference:
“O son of Dharma, let this be discussed among those whose wisdom I trust. Let thy mother, Kuntī, and my son Dṛṣṭadyumna join in counsel. When the heart of all is satisfied, and clarity shines forth like the dawn, then I shall act according to dharma.”