novelraw Arc 10 - Part 1 - Rajya Labha - Chapter 2 - Tilottamā
Arc 10 - Part 1 - Rajya Labha - Chapter 2 - Tilottamā
Nārada continued:
Then, O King, the celestial ṛṣis, the siddhas, and the high-souled sages—those whose hearts were anchored in śama (tranquility) and dama (self-restraint)—beheld the ruin of the worlds. Witnessing the devastation wrought by Sunda and Upasunda, their hearts filled with sorrow, their eyes with tears. Though free from attachment and purified by yoga, compassion stirred within them—for the fire of dharma had been nearly extinguished.
Moved by love for the trembling universe, they ascended together to the highest realm—the abode of Brahmā, Lord of Creation.
There, radiant like a thousand suns, the Grandsire sat in counsel amid a vast celestial assembly. Surrounding him were gods and ṛṣis:
Maheśvara, the Lord of Beings; Agni, red with sacrificial flame; Vāyu, the life-breath of the worlds; Soma, cool and nectarous; Sūrya, the light-bearing orb; and Śakra, wielder of thunder.
With them sat the Vaikhānasas, the Valakhilyas, the Ajas, the Marīcīpas, the Vanaprasthas, and other ancient sages of tremendous tapas.
With sorrowful voices, the ṛṣis fell at the feet of Brahmā and spoke of the evil acts of the Asura brothers.
“They have shattered yajñas, slain ṛṣis,
Cast sacred fires into the sea.
The earth is red with Brāhmaṇa blood,
And dharma cries across the sky.”
One by one, they recounted every deed—how the brothers hunted sages like beasts, how they assumed dreadful forms, how they cast the world into shadow. All present bowed their heads in anguish, and the heavens grew hushed.
Then Brahmā, the lotus-born, pondered deeply. Seated upon his throne of lotus and wind, his four faces stilled in thought, he turned inward, seeking the root of balance. When his resolve became firm, he summoned Viśvakarman, divine architect of the worlds.
When that celestial artisan approached, bowing with reverence, the Grandsire commanded:
“Create for me a maiden of unmatched beauty,
A form so fair no eye can turn away.
Let her be born of all that charms—
A snare spun from delight and flame.”
Bowing again, Viśvakarman set to work. With subtle precision, he gathered the choicest elements of beauty from every gem, flower, and star, blending grace with symmetry, charm with mystery, flame with fragrance. From these, he fashioned a maiden so exquisite, so luminous, that she seemed not created, but revealed.
Her eyes held the sheen of lotus dawn,
Her skin the gold of autumn’s moon.
Her voice was music not yet sung,
Her step the sway of dancing bloom.
So radiant was her form that the three worlds stood still. Gods, gandharvas, yakṣas, and serpents—none could look upon her without forgetting the self.
And because she was created from minute portions of every gem (tila meaning particle, uttama meaning best), the Grandsire named her Tilottamā.
As soon as life entered her perfect form, Tilottamā bowed to Brahmā, palms joined, her gaze lowered in humility, though her beauty burned like lightning.
She spoke:
“O Lord of All, source of creation and time,
What would you have me do?
For what purpose am I shaped,
A vessel of such beauty and flame?”
And Brahmā replied:
“Go now, O Tilottamā,
To the Asura brothers, proud and wild.
Let them behold thee with enraptured gaze—
And fall upon each other in ruinous desire.
Move among them as the spark of discord,
The mirror of their pride and doom.
Let beauty, which none can resist,
Be the weapon they forged for their end.”
Thus was the trap set—not of steel or spell, but of māyā, fashioned from delight. For where might and mantras failed, moha—bewilderment born of desire—would undo what even fire could not.
Nārada continued:
Tilottamā, the jewel among maidens, bowed gracefully before the Grandsire, her palms joined in reverence. With a voice soft as sandal breeze, she said, “So be it.” Then, as is proper, she circumambulated the celestial assembly.
The Grandsire—Brahmā—was seated facing the east, his expression serene as the morning sun. Beside him sat Mahādeva, Lord of Yogins, his gaze also turned eastward. The celestials sat facing north, while the ṛṣis, fixed in contemplation, faced all directions.
Then Tilottamā—shining like the very essence of Śrī, the goddess of beauty—began her slow, graceful walk around the gathered devas, sages, and gods.
Her hips swayed like ocean tides,
Her glance struck like silent thunder.
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Beauty’s flame in bodily form,
She moved, and all creation stirred.
As she passed, the conclave of immortals grew restless. Even the most tranquil hearts flickered with desire. Their eyes, drawn by unseen gravity, followed the curve of her form like stars drawn to the moon. Only two among them preserved their inner stillness: Indra, king of the gods, and Sthāṇu, the motionless one—Mahādeva himself.
Yet even Mahādeva, he who smears his body with ash and dwells in cremation grounds, desired to behold her from all sides. And thus, in his desire to witness her passage—
A face bloomed from his southern shoulder,
Like a lotus born of subtle fire.
When she passed behind, another emerged westward,
And when to his north, a fourth arose.
Thus did Mahādeva come to bear four faces, so that no angle of her divine beauty would escape his vision.
And not only this:
To witness her grace from every angle—
Front, back, and flank—
He came to possess a thousand eyes, large and crimson-hued,
Glowing with the light of desire restrained.
Even Viṣṇu, even the ṛṣis, even the Vasus and Maruts—all turned their faces, subtly or openly, toward Tilottamā as she passed. Only the Grandsire—Brahmā himself, origin of all, unmoved and all-seeing—remained unaffected, his mind poised in eternal creation.
The heavens themselves paused in breath,
As Tilottamā completed her round.
Her task had not begun—yet all knew:
The ruin of the Asuras was now assured.
Then, radiant as a dawn storm, Tilottamā turned from that council of gods and set forth to the city of the Daityas—her form the very thread by which destiny would unravel their pride.
After she departed, the Lord of all—Brahmā, cause without cause—lifted his gaze and dismissed the gathered gods and ṛṣis.
The heavens returned to stillness.
The trap was laid. The wheel now turned.
Nārada continued:
Meanwhile, O King, the Asura brothers, Sunda and Upasunda—having crushed all opposition and subdued the three worlds—stood without rivals upon the earth. The weight of conquest lifted, their strength unchallenged, they came to see themselves as gods among mortals, kings among immortals.
No foe remained to fear, no crown left to seize—
The heavens bowed, the earth lay still.
And they, in their triumph,
Knew no more restraint or need.
Having plundered the treasures of the gods and subdued the hosts of Gandharvas, Yakṣas, Nāgas, Rākṣasas, and the rulers of men, they gathered all beauty and wealth unto themselves. Jewels and garlands, perfumes and viands, dancers and celestial wines—they surrounded themselves with delight as one wraps oneself in silken clouds.
Believing the work of victory complete, they abandoned all effort and discipline. Like Indra and the gods of Svarga, they immersed themselves in luxury. Day and night passed in pleasure—fragrant, golden, and heedless.
In halls adorned with pearls and flame,
On riverbanks, beneath flowering trees,
In gardens, mountains, forests wide—
They wandered drunk on ecstasy.
Their laughter echoed across the stony hills, and every desire of the senses was fulfilled before it could even be spoken. Women of surpassing beauty, skilled in the arts of dance and song, adorned their courts and pleasure grounds. Music rose like incense; garlands fell like rain. Wine flowed, and laughter mingled with the soft rhythm of drums.
And so it was, one day, that they journeyed for pleasure to a level plateau upon the Vindhya range—a land paved with stone and strewn with blossoms, where flowering trees swayed gently in the wind. There, beneath a canopy of bright leaves and sky, the Asura brothers reclined upon thrones of gold, their hearts brimming with contentment.
Surrounded by fair women radiant as stars,
With all delights close at hand,
They sat in the perfume-laced air—
Smiling, powerful, and blind.
Then those maidens, eager to please, rose and began to dance. Their anklets rang with golden notes, their steps graceful as moonbeams. Accompanied by soft music and the rustling of silk, they sang sweet verses in praise of their mighty lords.
“Hail to the heroes who have tamed the worlds,
Whose arms no foe can bind.
Sons of Nikumbha, fierce and fair—
Masters of earth, sky, and mind!”
But O King, even as their names echoed in song, the noose of destiny drew near. For in their hour of greatest joy, the gods’ snare walked closer, cloaked in grace and irresistible light.
Nārada continued:
Meanwhile, the snare of the gods approached—the jewel among women, the divine Tilottamā. She moved with grace beyond description, her form veiled and revealed in a single strip of crimson silk. Her skin glowed like dawn, her limbs flowed like rivers of gold. As she wandered, she plucked wildflowers from the forest path, as if untouched by desire herself.
Slowly, she came to the plateau where the Asura brothers sat amidst their pleasures.
Like spring entering a ruined land,
Like lightning gliding through night,
She stepped into their world of pride—
And the storm of fate was stirred.
The brothers, drunk on power, wine, and the illusions of invincibility, saw her—and were struck dumb with desire. Rising from their golden seats, they rushed toward her, their hearts no longer united in brotherhood but aflame with lust.
Sunda seized her first, grasping her right hand with trembling haste.
“I claim her,” he said, voice thick with wine. “She is mine—my bride.”
Upasunda, eyes burning with rage, cried in return,
“She is my wife, and so your sister! She belongs to me, not you!”
“Mine!” “No—mine!”
Thus spoke pride, thus broke love.
Boon and bond and blood forgotten,
Two fires clashed in a single flame.
Their hands gripped their great maces, once raised together in conquest, now turned against each other. Each roared, “I was first!” Their hearts once one, now throbbed in rivalry. Their eyes, once reflecting a single will, now mirrored only wrath.
Then, in a flash of fury, they struck.
Steel met skull. Bone shattered.
The field rang with the thunder of maces,
And both fell—bloodied, broken, undone.
Like twin suns torn from heaven’s vault,
They crashed to earth in flame and gore.
Thus were Sunda and Upasunda slain,
Not by gods, nor men—but by their own desire.
Seeing their fall, the Asura women shrieked in terror. The dancers fled. Their allies, gripped by panic, abandoned the pleasure-ground. Like night scattered by dawn, they vanished, seeking safety in the netherworlds.
Then the heavens opened. The gods descended in radiant procession, and with them came the ṛṣis and the divine sages. At their head walked Brahmā, the Grandsire of all beings, serene and smiling. Seeing Tilottamā standing calm amidst the chaos she had wrought, he blessed her.
“O radiant maiden,” said he, “you have fulfilled your task.
The balance is restored, the pride of the Daityas undone.
Ask a boon—whatever you desire shall be granted.”
Before she could even speak, the Supreme Lord, knowing her heart, joyfully declared:
“You shall dwell in the realm of the Ādityas,
Among the radiant, you shall shine brightest.
So great shall your brilliance become,
That no one shall gaze upon you for long.”
Thus spoke the Creator, and so it came to pass. The three worlds were returned to Indra’s governance. Sacrifices resumed, dharma stirred, and the sacred fires once more crackled in Brāhmaṇa homes.
The snare of beauty had done what arms could not.
Desire had slain where curses failed.
And Tilottamā, born of gems and grace,
Departed—her task fulfilled, her light now divine.
Nārada continued:
Thus it was, O scions of the Kuru race, that the mighty Asura brothers—once united in every thought and deed—were undone by a single flame of beauty. Though born from the same womb, their bond of love could not withstand the fire of kāma. For the sake of Tilottamā, they struck each other down, forgetting blood, vow, and kinship.
“Hear me then,” said the divine sage,
“O sons of Pāṇḍu, noble and wise.
Let not such sorrow visit your house—
Let dharma rule where passion tries.
I speak from love, not fear or blame—
Establish now a righteous frame.
For one wife you share, O royal line,
Let no discord your hearts entwine.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Hearing the sage’s solemn warning, the five Pāṇḍavas bowed with reverence and consulted one another. There, in the presence of Nārada, knower of time and destiny, they resolved upon a sacred vow—one that would preserve harmony amidst shared love.
A rule was formed, simple and grave:
“Whenever one of us is alone with Draupadī,
If another should intrude upon that time—
He shall, without delay or protest,
Retire to the forest for twelve years,
Living as a brahmacārin,
Bound by celibacy, austerity, and silence.”
Thus was the law made—born not of law books, but of fraternal love and forethought. The noble brothers accepted it with unwavering hearts, for the sake of peace, for the sake of Draupadī, and for the sake of dharma.
Seeing their devotion to righteousness, Nārada, the great Muni, was well pleased. He blessed them with folded hands and departed to his celestial abode, leaving behind a family bound not by desire but by wisdom.
And so it was, O Janamejaya,
That no quarrel ever rose between the sons of Pāṇḍu,
Though they shared a wife of fire-born beauty,
For they had yoked their hearts to restraint.