Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 8 - Part 2 - Vaivahika - Chapter 5 - Vyāsa’s Wisdom

Vaiśampāyana said:

And so it was, O Janamejaya, that the son of Kuntī, the queen herself, and Dṛṣṭadyumna entered into thoughtful counsel together. And even as they were speaking, the wind shifted, and the air became still—as if heralding the arrival of someone great.

Suddenly, like the rising sun breaking through forest shadows, the island-born sage Vyāsa appeared, clad in bark and radiant with spiritual fire. He had come in the course of his wanderings, drawn perhaps by fate, perhaps by the deeper order of dharma.

Where dharma falters and minds are torn,

There comes the sage, with vision born.

To set in place the sacred thread—

Between what is done, and what is said.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then, when the great Ṛṣi Kṛṣṇa Dvaipāyana Vyāsa arrived, all the assembled heroes—the sons of Pāṇḍu, King Drupada, Dṛṣṭadyumna, and the noble elders—rose as one and bowed with joined palms. The sage, vast in tapas and wisdom, returned their salutations with a gaze radiant as the fire that consumes ignorance.

Seated upon a carpet woven with golden threads, the Island-born Rishi invited the others to take their seats upon shining stools and lion-thrones. Once they were settled, the air thick with unspoken doubt, the prince of the Pāñcālas addressed the venerable sage with folded hands and a voice like the murmur of a sacred stream:

“O illustrious one, fountain of dharma and friend of the three worlds, tell us—how can one maiden, though born from fire and crowned with beauty and virtue, be wedded lawfully to five men? Is this not opposed to both śruti and smṛti? Resolve for us this troubling knot.”

Then the great sage, whose vision spanned past, present, and future, cast a glance of compassion upon all, and said:

“Indeed, O king, this practice is veiled in mystery.

Opposed it may seem to present law and custom,

Yet subtle is the way of dharma—

And dharma’s heart lies beyond mere sight and sound.

Before I speak, let each of you declare his mind.

For the voice of truth may emerge in the chorus of many.”

At this, King Drupada, still bound by earthly law and noble restraint, spoke first, rising respectfully:

“O revered Ṛṣi, my heart is torn. The śāstras do not sanction this act. In all the histories and Vedas that I have known, no woman was ever the wedded wife of many. None of the ancients, not Manu, not Ṛṣabha, nor Yayāti, have spoken of such a practice. Surely, this is a path edged with sin.

Morality is the sky, the stars are its limbs—

To step without light is to wander blind.

My conscience recoils from this unheard-of act—

Let Dharma, not desire, be our guide.”

Then Dṛṣṭadyumna, son of fire, spoke from his seat of honor:

“O sage of sages, teacher of the gods,

How can the elder brother approach the wife of the younger

Without breaking the ancient wall of virtue?

Indeed, dharma is subtle—who may grasp its thread?

But how can we, in the shadow of doubt,

Tread a path the righteous kings of old did not walk?”

Thus said the brother of the bride, torn between custom and revelation.

Yudhiṣṭhira then spoke with calm resolve, his voice soft as the wind through sacred groves, yet firm with the weight of truth:

“O revered ones, my tongue has never spoken falsehood,

And my heart inclines not toward sin.

That which my heart does not condemn,

That I cannot believe to be unrighteous.

When virtue stirs within,

It shines brighter than the fire upon the altar.

I have heard in ancient Purāṇas this tale of wonder:

Jatilā, chaste and foremost among the daughters of the Gotama line,

Was wedded to seven sages—

Not by folly, but by fate and merit.

And again, an ascetic maiden, born of a tree,

Took as her husbands ten Pracetas brothers,

All born from the same line, all radiant with tapas.

If such unions have existed in ages past,

Then where lies the wrong in what destiny brings us now?

Moreover, O learned ones, let this truth be known:

Among all elders, the mother holds the highest place.

She who bore us has spoken—

And Draupadī, gained as alms,

Must be shared as all else won in dharma’s name.

Therefore, I see no fault, no sin, no transgression.”

Hearing this, Kuntī, revered mother of the sons of Dharma, sighed and spoke with folded palms:

“O holy one, if it be sin to speak a lie,

Then let not my speech fall into darkness.

Unknowing, I uttered those words—

But now I fear their weight.

Tell me, how shall I be saved

From the chain of untruth that binds the soul?”

Then Vyāsa, that ancient seer born of an island,

Whose eyes see the past and the unborn future,

Answered her with a tranquil smile:

“O gentle lady, be at peace.

That which is rooted in dharma cannot bear the fruit of sin.

The act you fear is woven into eternal law.

And Yudhiṣṭhira, your noble son, speaks only what is righteous.

But the full reason lies deep—hidden from common sight.

I shall not reveal it before all,

For such knowledge must be spoken with care.

Come, O king Drupada—descendant of Pṛṣata—

Let me speak with thee alone.

There is cause beyond cause,

A thread that ties Draupadī to this fate

Woven by time, upheld by the gods,

And known only to those who see beyond the veil.”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Thus saying, the great ṛṣi Vyāsa rose, his matted locks like clouds gathering before a storm, and took King Drupada by the hand. Silently they withdrew into a chamber set apart—hidden from eyes and ears.

There, in quiet solemnity,

Did the master Dvaipāyana unfold

The mystery of Draupadī’s fate,

And why her sharing by the sons of Dharma

Was not sin, but sacrifice—

A vow reborn from lives before.

Meanwhile, the sons of Pāṇḍu, with Kuntī and noble Dṛṣṭadyumna,

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Waited in stillness,

As the sacred fire of destiny was kindled anew

By the word of the seer.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then the island-born sage, Śrī Vyāsa, spake unto Drupada, revealing what is hidden from the eyes of men and kings:

“In ancient times, O king, in the sacred forest of Naimiṣa,

The celestials assembled to perform a vast and holy yajña.

There, Yama—the son of Vivasvān, the Lord of Justice—

Was appointed to slay the sacrificial beasts with perfect precision.

Bound by the vow of that sacrifice, he took no human life.

And so, while that rite endured,

Death itself withdrew from the world.

Men multiplied without end.

The earth grew dense with the weight of mortal flesh.

And then did fear arise even among the immortals.

Soma, radiant and cool;

Indra, bearer of the thunderbolt;

Varuṇa of the depths; and Kuvera, Lord of Wealth—

Along with the Sādhyas, Vasus, Rudras, and the twin Aśvins—

All came, troubled, before Brahmā, the Grandfather of all.

‘O Lord of Beings,’ they said,

‘The balance of the worlds is disturbed.

Men die not, yet multiply.

Immortality has passed into mortal hands.

What now separates us from them?’

The Grandsire replied with calm:

‘It is not yours to fear.

What is born must die—

And Yama, when his vow ends,

Shall resume his task.

With force gathered from all your divine strengths,

He will sweep through the world,

And take multitudes back into the hidden realms.

Then shall death return, and balance be restored.’

Vaiśampāyana explained:

O King Janamejaya, by telling this story to Drupada, Vyāsa was reminding him that even the gods must sometimes witness unusual events when the balance of the world is disturbed. In that ancient time, because Yama had stopped taking lives due to his role in a great sacrifice, people on Earth stopped dying and their numbers kept growing. This troubled the gods, who feared that mortals were becoming like immortals. But Brahmā, the Creator, reassured them: when the time was right, Yama would resume his task and restore balance by ending human lives again. This story shows that cosmic order sometimes shifts, but dharma always returns. Vyāsa began this tale to prepare Drupada for a deeper truth—that some strange or rare events in the world, like Draupadī having multiple husbands, might have their roots in divine decisions made long ago.

Vyāsa continued:

Then the gods, having received the words of the First-born, the eternal Brahmā, bowed with reverence. Turning away from the heights of revelation, they made their way back to the place of the great yajña—the sacred sacrifice blazing at the heart of creation.

It was then, as they neared the holy banks of Bhāgīrathī, that a marvel met their gaze.

The sacred river flowed clear as crystal, but carried upon its current was a lotus—resplendent and golden, unlike any bloom born of earthly soil.

The gods paused, astonished.

Among them, the slayer of Vṛtra, mighty Indra, stood transfixed.

Curious and compelled by wonder, he soared upstream along the celestial Ganges, where the goddess Gaṅgā emerges ever-flowing, eternal.

There, at the fountainhead of heaven’s river, he beheld a radiant woman.

She was as bright as sacrificial flame, luminous like dawn breaking over snow-capped peaks. Clad in sorrow, she stood immersed in the stream, bathing in its sacred waters—yet her face bore the marks of unending grief.

From her eyes fell tears like molten gold.

And each drop that touched Gaṅgā’s current

Blossomed into a lotus, sun-forged and pure—

A miracle born of sorrow’s alchemy.

Indra, wielder of the thunderbolt, approached gently, his voice softened by awe:

“O lady of celestial form, burning like Agni in beauty and anguish,

Who art thou, and why do these tears fall from thine eyes?

What pain turns thy sorrow into sacred gold?

Speak, I entreat thee—tell me all in truth.”

Vyāsa continued:

To Indra’s inquiry, the radiant woman answered not with direct speech, but with a gaze heavy with sorrow and eyes brimming with ancient pain.

“O Śakra,” she said, her voice like wind through burning grass,

“If thou wouldst truly know who I am and why I weep thus,

Come—follow me, O lord of the celestials.

Let thine own eyes witness the cause of my grief.”

So saying, she turned. The sovereign of the skies, ever curious and drawn by mystery, followed her through groves of snow-laden pine and peaks glistening with the light of the dawn.

In time, they came to a lofty crag of the Himavat, crowned in white. There, seated upon a throne of crystal and cloud, was a youth of surpassing beauty, divine in bearing. Beside him sat a maiden, glowing with grace. The two played at dice, their laughter echoing across the mountains.

Beholding this marvel, Indra—king of gods and lord of the triple worlds—spoke with authority:

“O brilliant youth, dost thou not know?

This universe is under my sway.

I am Indra—wielder of the thunderbolt,

Guardian of heaven’s law.”

But the youth, absorbed in his play, gave no reply. Dice clicked like fate being cast, and he smiled only slightly, unmoved by Indra’s proclamation.

Then Indra’s brow furrowed with prideful wrath, and he cried again:

“Hear me! I am the lord of the universe!”

But the youth—none other than Maheśvara, Śiva Himself, the God of gods—lifted his gaze just once. That single glance, heavy with the weight of aeons, struck Indra like lightning stripped of sound. In that moment, the king of gods stood motionless—paralysed like a tree turned to stone, rooted in the folly of arrogance.

When the dice game concluded, Īśāna, possessor of fierce tapas and tranquil might, turned to the weeping woman and said:

“Bring this pride-blind Śakra before me,

That I may cleanse his soul with terror.

Let him taste what others have borne,

That pride may not return again.”

At His word, the woman touched Indra. Her hand, gentle as snow, carried the might of a thousand yajñas. The moment her fingers brushed him, Indra—sovereign of heaven—collapsed, helpless, upon the earth.

Then spoke the fierce-eyed Śiva, whose laughter shakes the world:

“Do not act in this way again, O Śakra. Let not pride, born of power, blind thy sight. Now lift this stone, for thy strength is mighty—let it serve dharma and not ego. Beneath it lies a secret thou must see.”

Trembling like a banyan leaf in storm, Indra obeyed.

With weakened limbs, he pushed aside the massive rock. Beneath it gaped a hidden cave carved deep within the bones of Himavat. And in that shadowed space, he beheld a fearful sight—four others, radiant and powerful as himself, bound and trapped in silence.

Each one bore his likeness—divine in form, yet cursed in fate.

Grief surged in Indra’s chest.

“Shall I too become like these?” he whispered.

Then the three-eyed god, Girīśa, flaring with wrath, his gaze wide and terrible, spoke in thunderous tones:

“O wielder of the hundred sacrifices!

Thou hast mocked the eternal flame.

Thy pride has scorned the Lord of Time—

Now enter the cave and bear thy shame!”

These words, like thunderbolts, broke Indra’s pride. Struck by fear, he trembled—no longer kingly, but humbled—his limbs shaking as the leaf of a fig tree when the icy breath of the Himavat passes over it.

Then, cursed in wrath by the god whose banner bears the bull—Mahādeva, lord of paradox and power—Indra, king of the celestials, fell to his knees.

His arms trembled, his voice quaked, and with hands folded and head bowed low, he uttered words of praise to the terrible god of many forms, the one who devours time and yet shelters the world:

“O Bhava, thou overseer of boundless spheres,

Whose eyes are sun and moon and fire—

O Three-eyed One, whose rage consumes

Yet whose mercy births the Vedas entire!”

But Rudra, the fierce and fiery, only smiled.

“Those whose hearts burn with pride as thine,”

He said, his voice calm and blazing like yajña flame,

“Shall not obtain my grace so soon.

These others—Indras like thee—once walked thy path.

Now they lie here, stripped of glory,

Humbled beneath the gaze of Time.

Enter the cave, join them in silence—

For ye all must descend into mortal birth.”

Then the thunderer, and the four who shared his fate, bowed their celestial heads in solemn acceptance.

They who once ruled heaven now prepared for birth upon the earth.

And Śaṅkara, the Lord of Hosts, revealed their destiny:

“On earth shall ye be born,

Sons of gods, yet veiled in human skin.

Your names shall be mighty, your deeds shall resound—

You shall fight, fall, rise, and redeem.

Slayers of thousands, performers of great vows,

Men and gods shall chant your names.

And by merit earned in mortal dust,

You shall return to the luminous realm of Indra.”

Hearing these words, the five Indras—beings of shorn splendour—accepted their exile with courage.

They said:

“Let it be as you decree, O Śiva,

For even in sorrow, dharma shall shine.

Though birth among men is sorrowful and dim,

We shall go—

Let Dharma, Vāyu, Maghavat, and the twin Aśvins

Beget us through a chosen womb.

Let us descend as heroes, bearers of celestial fate,

Wielders of weapons divine and human both.

And after trial, blood, and dharma’s dance,

We shall rise again to heaven’s gate.”

Thus, O King, did the celestials accept their mortal descent—divine souls cast down by pride, yet destined to rise through karma and kṣatra, through sacrifice and sorrow.

Vyāsa continued:

Hearing the vow of the other Indras, the wielder of the thunderbolt, mighty Śakra himself, stepped forward again and addressed the Great Lord whose banner bears the bull:

“O Mahādeva,” he said humbly, “instead of descending in full into the realm of men, I shall send a portion of my own being. From my essence, I shall shape one more—a fifth to join the four. He shall carry my power and fulfill the task decreed by fate.”

And so it was ordained.

Vishwabhuk, Bhūtadhāman, Śivi the steadfast,

Śānti the fourth, and Tejasvin the bright—

These five were the ancient Indras,

Now destined to walk the mortal path.

Moved by compassion, the three-eyed god, destroyer and savior alike, granted their earnest prayer. But he gave more still:

He appointed that divine lady, born of grace and glowing with celestial light—Śrī Herself, goddess of fortune and fragrance—to descend as their common consort in the mortal world.

Then, accompanied by those Indras, Śiva journeyed to the Infinite—to Nārāyaṇa, the all-pervading, timeless Spirit, whose form is beyond thought, unmanifest yet supreme, the unborn essence of all creation.

To Him who is uncreate and formless,

Whose limbs are space and whose breath is time,

Who dwells in the ocean of silence and stars—

They came, and He approved.

Nārāyaṇa, Hari, the refuge of all beings, consented to the plan of the gods.

And then, O King, a marvel occurred:

From His own being, Hari plucked two hairs—

One black as the cloud before rain,

The other white as milk’s first froth—

And cast them into the wombs of two Yādava women.

Thus entered the divine into flesh.

The white hair took form as Baladeva, strong and pure,

The black as Kṛṣṇa, the very Self of Keśava,

Born to Rohiṇī and Devakī,

Saviors of dharma in darkening times.

As for the five Indras, cast into the world of men—they became the sons of Pāṇḍu, radiant with divine might.

Know, O King, that Arjuna, also called Savyasāchin, the ambidextrous archer, is none other than a portion of mighty Śakra himself.

And Draupadī, O monarch of the Kuru line,

She who shone with the splendor of flame,

Whose fragrance wafted for leagues,

Whose form no womb bore—

Was Śrī incarnate, born of yajña’s fire,

Gifted to them by the gods themselves.

Born not of woman but of sacrifice,

She rose from the altar's golden womb—

Her eyes like dawn, her voice like bells,

The bride of heroes, fate-bound and free.

Then, O Bhārata, Vyāsa raised his hand.

His eyes, deep with tapas, met the King’s, O Janamejaya, and he said:

“Unto you I grant another boon—divine sight. Behold, not these mortal princes clad in flesh, but the celestial forms of old. See the Pāṇḍavas as they truly are—Indras radiant, born once more to uphold dharma!”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Thus having spoken, the venerable sage Kṛṣṇa-Dvaipāyana Vyāsa, foremost among ṛṣis and ocean of compassion, bestowed upon King Drupada the gift of divine sight. With a touch of his hand and the force of his ascetic power, the veil of illusion was lifted.

And in that instant, the king of Pāñcāla beheld a wondrous vision.

The sons of Pāṇḍu stood before him, no longer bound by mortal form.

Each gleamed with celestial radiance, crowned in gold and garlanded with fragrance.

Their limbs shone like fire touched by dawn,

Their stature proud, five cubits tall, their bearing like that of gods.

Their chests were broad, their arms strong like the trunks of elephants, and their eyes shone with knowledge and courage. Robed in garments of heaven’s weave, they were adorned with divine ornaments, draped in garlands no earthly hand could make—garlands whose scent wafted like incense from a yajña fire.

The king saw not men but deities:

Like Rudras blazing with power,

Like Vasus, bearers of light,

Like Ādityas rising in the heavens,

Like Mahādeva himself—three-eyed, vast, and all-knowing.

And there among them, Arjuna, whose form shimmered with the fire of Śakra, revealed himself in his original glory—a portion of Indra, the thunderer incarnate.

Drupada, beholding this company of gods in human guise, felt his heart flood with awe. His eyes turned toward his daughter—Draupadī, she who had risen from sacrificial flame. He saw in her not merely a woman, but a celestial damselful of radiance.

Her skin glowed like moonlight over lotus waters,

Her eyes bore the calm of sacred mantras,

Her fragrance lingered like spring’s first breeze—

She was born not for mortals, but for gods.

And in that moment, the king knew: she was indeed worthy—worthy to be the bride of these divine ones, born from heaven’s resolve.

Overwhelmed, Drupada bowed low before Vyāsa and touched the dust of his feet, his voice filled with devotion:

“O great Ṛṣi, O son of Satyavatī! Truly, nothing is miraculous for thee. What is hidden from thy gaze, what beyond thy power?”

Then Vyāsa, smiling gently like a calm river at dusk, spoke once more:

“O King, hear now the deeper cause behind this fate—

Why this maiden shall belong to five,

Though chaste as the moon and single of heart,

Her destiny was shaped in ages past.”

He continued:

“In a hermitage deep within the woods,

Lived the daughter of a mighty sage—pure and radiant,

Unwed though fair, untouched though longed for.

Her penance shook the forest roots.”

She had fasted, prayed, and stood like a flame unshaken by wind. Her heart was set on attaining a husband of all virtues, one in whom every perfection dwelt.

Moved by her fierce austerities, the great god Śaṅkara, Lord of Lords, appeared before her and said:

“Ask thy boon, O maiden bright,

Thy tapas has pleased my soul this night.”

With hands joined, the girl replied:

“Grant me, O Lord, a husband possessed of every excellence.”

But she, in her fervent plea, had spoken not once—but five times, each time repeating her wish to the divine.

Thus the Lord of the Trident, smiling at her sincerity and bound by her repeated prayer, replied:

“So be it, O chaste one. In another life,

You shall have five husbands, as you have asked.

Each shall possess the virtues you seek—

Together, they shall complete your vow.”