10.
They traveled southeast, frequently at night
to avoid notice, Arjuna leading them,
holding a firebrand.
In a lonely spot
at a sacred ford on the river Ganga,
they disturbed the king of the gandharvas
as he sported with his apsarases.
At dusk, rivers belong to the gandharvas;
this was his private place, and he was furious.
“By what right” said Arjuna, “do you keep us
from the Ganga, which belongs to all?”
A fight followed. Arjuna let loose
the Fire weapon, and captured the gandharva,
burning up his beautiful chariot.
At Yudhishthira’s request, Arjuna
spared his opponent’s life and, in return,
he and the gandharva became allies,
exchanging gifts. The gandharva gave horses
of exceptional speed (though Arjuna
thought it wise to leave them behind for now)
and Arjuna presented the grateful king
with the Fire weapon. “Now I know who you are,”
said the king. “But let me advise you—
we would not have attacked you in this way
had you been traveling with a household priest
carrying the sacrificial fire
and the objects needed for oblations.
A king can never prosper without a priest.”
“How should we find a priest?” asked Arjuna.
The gandharva suggested Dhaumya,
a most renowned scholar of the Vedas,
whose hermitage was nearby. So it was
that the wise Dhaumya became household priest
to the Pandavas, and remained so, lifelong.
Kampilya was buzzing with preparation.
The Pandavas, still disguised as brahmins,
smeared with ash, barefoot, with heavy beards,
were lodging with a potter’s family.
Every day, they walked around the city
with their begging bowls, separately, alert
for searching looks. But they noticed none.
Young brahmins, even with a proud demeanor,
attracted no attention—crowds of brahmins
had come to Kampilya, drawn by the prospect
of rich presents. Every evening, Kunti
shared out what the brothers had been given.
The city streets were jostling with strangers
from far and near. In every public space,
entertainers—jugglers, contortionists,
conjurors, dancers, all kinds of musicians—
scrambled for the most strategic pitch.
Gossip was rife. Who was the lucky suitor
who would prove brave and skilled enough to win
the dazzling Draupadi? Some imagined
a warrior of god-like looks and strength
sweeping down in a bejeweled chariot
to win his bride and carry her away.
At last, the auspicious day. The sky was brilliant.
Brahmins had consecrated the event.
Crowds of spectators, fizzing with excitement,
were pressing forward into the arena
where Draupadi’s future would be decided.
Surrounded by tall mansions, glistening
white as the sunlit snows of the Himalaya,
and lavishly adorned with costly hangings,
the amphitheater was an impressive sight.
Now, from the massive entrance to the palace,
Draupadi, with her brother, Drishtadyumna,
walked slowly to the dais, head slightly bowed.
She was dressed in scarlet silk; her ornaments
were of the finest jewel-encrusted gold.
Her beauty made those who had never seen her
gasp—her skin with the sheen of a black pearl,
her lovely face, lustrous wavy hair,
her perfect body, fragrant as blue lotus;
while in her eyes, in her calm expression,
there was something that engendered awe.
Surely she was nervous? So much depended
on these few hours.
Prince Dhrishtadyumna spoke.
“Warriors who are gathered here today
hoping to win the hand of Draupadi,
the task is this: a bow has been provided
together with five arrows. Overhead
is a revolving wheel and, higher still,
a small target. You have to string the bow,
and hit the target with each of the arrows,
aiming through the wheel. My sister, Draupadi,
will choose her husband from those who succeed.”
The task had been devised by Drupada.
He was hoping, against all the odds,
that Arjuna might have survived the fire
and could be among the assembled warriors.
King Drupada had witnessed at first hand
what Arjuna could do. Still, he had kept
his great wish to himself. Now, he waited.
Dhrishtadyumna announced the contestants
by name and pedigree. Duryodhana
was here with Karna and Duhshasana
and several more of Dhritarashtra’s sons;
Shalya, king of the Madras, with his sons;
Drona’s son Ashvatthaman, Shakuni,
Shishupala, known as the Bull of Chedi;
Satyaki, and dozens of other champions
from the Vrishni clan—in sum, there were scores
of royal heroes. Under an ample awning
they sat in silence. Tension was palpable.
Inconspicuous among the brahmins,
the Pandavas were staring at Draupadi,
mesmerized. At a distance, Krishna,
prince of the Vrishnis, turned to Balarama,
his older brother: “Look at those brahmins—there.”
Balarama looked; and smiled at Krishna.
Neither of them would compete that day.
Krishna knew why the Panchala princess
had come into the world—the same reason
as he himself: to be an instrument
for the deliverance of the suffering earth.
To carry out their part in the gods’ design.
The first contestant stepped up to the mark.
The bow provided had been specially made
for this occasion, crafted like bows of old
when men were men, and kshatriyas, demigods.
It was so stiff and heavy, few could lift it,
let alone string it and take aim with it.
Prince after prince made the attempt, but failed.
As they tried to bend the bow, it sprang back
flinging them to the ground, smashing their limbs.
They limped away, sore, angry and ashamed,
desire for Draupadi evaporated.
Duryodhana tried, so did his brothers,
but none could even begin to bend the bow.
Shishupala, a formidable warrior,
and his powerful friend Jarasandha
each made the attempt, but each of them
was flung onto his knees, humiliated.
Karna stepped forward. He, if anyone,
would have the necessary strength and, yes,
he grasped and bent the bow into a circle
and was about to string it, when he heard
Draupadi exclaim in a clear voice,
“I will not choose a suta for my husband!”
Karna laughed bitterly, laid down the bow
and, glancing at the sun, walked to his place.
Now you could hear a stirring in the stands,
a frisson of surprise. A young brahmin
was striding forward. Some people were scornful;
others said, “Nothing is impossible
to a brahmin of strict vows—and, besides,
that one has the stature of a god!”
Almost casually, as though the task
were child’s play to him, the young man raised the bow,
strung it, and shot five arrows through the wheel.
They clustered close around the target’s center;
with the fifth, the target fell to earth.
The contest was over. The crowd cheered and stamped.
A rain of flowers fell on the hero’s head.
Draupadi took up the ritual garland
of white flowers, and walked toward the victor.
Smiling, she draped the garland round his neck.
Most spectators were happy that the princess
had such a worthy husband, even though
he was not the prince they naturally expected.
But there was uproar from the kshatriyas—
angry shouting from the Kauravas
and many others: “Drupada has cheated!
He has treated us with complete contempt
and broken the rules. The law is very clear—
only a kshatriya should have his daughter.
He should die!” Several of them surged forward
to kill the king. But Bhima and Arjuna
rushed to defend him. Bhima snatched up a tree,
stripped off the leaves and, swinging it like a club,
lunged like Death himself at furious Shalya,
king of the Madras. The assembled brahmins,
shaking their deerskins, banging their water pots,
were all for joining in, but Arjuna
waved them back, and drawing the mighty bow
with which he had won Draupadi, he entered
into the affray.
“So, we were right,”
said Krishna to his brother Balarama.
“Those brahmins are, indeed, the Pandavas.”
“Oh, what a joy,” exclaimed Balarama,
“that the sons of Kunti, our father’s sister,
are alive after all!”
Meanwhile, the mayhem
continued. The uneventful brahmin life
the Pandavas had led for so many months
had left them hungry for action. Arjuna
found himself fighting against Karna,
Karna not recognizing his opponent.
Arjuna rejoiced to have the chance
to test his warrior’s skill against the man
who had caused him shame at the tournament.
They fought like gods. All the other warriors
dropped their weapons so they could observe
the well-matched pair, the lightning exchange
of arrows, the whirling bodies, dancing feet.
This was a duel, but also an expression
of the highest art, and each great archer
was exhilarated by the other’s skill.
“Are you the Art of Archery incarnate?”
asked Karna. “I am not,” replied Arjuna,
“I am a brahmin, adept at the astras,
master of the divine Brahma weapon,
and I shall defeat you. Fight on, hero!”
But Karna withdrew, unwilling to oppose
brahminic power. The brawl started up again—
Bhima against Shalya, pounding each other
like two great elephants in rut. The battle
was starting to turn ugly. And then Krishna
intervened with diplomatic words:
“The bride was righteously and fairly won;
this fighting is unseemly.” Reluctantly,
still unappeased, the kshatriyas turned away
and set out on the journey to their kingdoms.
Kunti had stayed at home, restless, enduring,
hour after hour, that dull anxiety
so familiar to mothers everywhere.
She thought of everything that was at stake,
and of the dangers. At last, she heard her sons’
voices in the yard. “Mother! Mother!
we have brought back largesse!”
“Then, my dears,
you will share it equitably between you,”
called Kunti. Then they walked in with Draupadi!
Kunti was startled; then she was overjoyed
and she and Draupadi embraced each other.
But then she wrung her hands. “Oh! I just said
you must share whatever you were bringing.
But how can you share Draupadi without
breaching dharma? Yet, if you don’t, my words
will be a lie.” The brothers became silent.
Their mother’s word was always absolute—
what could they do? They talked into the night,
and as they talked, glancing at Draupadi,
all five brothers fell in love with her.
Suddenly, Yudhishthira remembered
the story told them by the wise Vyasa.
Of course—to avoid making their mother
a liar, they should all marry Draupadi.
A heaven-sent solution! Up to now,
nothing had come between the Pandavas;
the marriage of one could have bred jealousy
among the rest. And though Arjuna had won
the Panchala princess, he should not marry
before Yudhishthira, his eldest brother.
When Draupadi looked at these five heroes,
each wonderful in his own way, she knew
the gods had given her a fivefold blessing.
Krishna and Balarama came to see them
(the first time the cousins had met each other)
and wished them all good fortune. The young men
were delighted. “But how did you know us,”
asked Yudhishthira, “disguised as we are?”
Krishna smiled. “Who but the Pandavas
would look so powerful and so dignified?
But we should not stay now.” And they took their leave.
Dhrishtadyumna, watching secretly,
was now convinced that the brothers were, indeed,
the Pandavas, and went to tell his father.
The king rejoiced. His hopes had been fulfilled:
the brave young brahmin really was Arjuna!
Next day, Drupada sent a splendid chariot
to bring the Pandavas to the royal palace
where they declared their true identities.
He asked the brothers how they had escaped
the dreadful fire, and what had happened since.
The story took some time. Drupada smiled.
“Now you need have no worries—all my wealth
and my fine army is at your disposal.
You will certainly regain your kingdom.
The Kauravas will not oppose you, now
our dynasties are to be joined by marriage.”
But five husbands! There he drew the line.
A kshatriya could marry several wives,
that was normal, but he had never heard
of one woman having many husbands.
It was not right. It was at odds with dharma.
Yudhishthira referred to well-known stories
where rishis—not offenders against dharma,
but holy men—had shared the same woman.
“That may be well for brahmins,” said Drupada,
“but not for us. How can I give my daughter,
my dark flower, princess of Panchala,
to five husbands, and still preserve her honor?”
At this point, Vyasa was announced,
timely as ever. Drupada turned to him,
“Muni, knower of minds, I need your wisdom,”
and he told Vyasa of the strange proposal.
Vyasa took the king to a private room.
“Drupada,” said Vyasa, “it is true
that such a thing is rare in recent times.
But in a nobler age, it was quite common.
And the marriage of your fire-born daughter
to these five brothers, was long ago ordained
by Shiva.”
Then Vyasa told the story:
“THE GODS WERE once performing a sacrifice in the Naimisha Forest. Yama, god of death, was fully occupied with sacrificial duties, and had no time to attend to the death of creatures. So human beings lived on and on, and the earth was becoming overcrowded. The immortal gods went to Brahma and complained that nothing now distinguished them from men.
“‘Rest assured,’ said Brahma, ‘that as soon as the sacrifice is over, Yama will resume normal activity and people will die as they always have.’
“The gods returned to the sacrifice, and Indra, chief of gods, noticed a woman washing herself in the Ganga. She was weeping and, as she wept, each tear became a golden lotus that floated on the water.
“‘Who are you,’ he asked, ‘and why are you weeping?’
“‘I will show you—come with me,’ she said. She led him to a nearby place where a youth was sitting playing dice, so utterly engrossed in the game that he took no notice when Indra spoke to him.
“‘Pay attention when I speak to you!’ said Indra, ‘Don’t you know that I am the chief of gods?’
“The youth smiled and glanced at Indra who became paralyzed immediately, for the youth was none other than the great lord Shiva. When he had finished his game, he told the woman to touch Indra, who collapsed on the ground.
“‘You need to be taught a lesson for your overweening pride,’ said Shiva. ‘Move that great boulder to one side and enter the cave that you will find behind it.’ Trembling with fear, Indra did so and, imprisoned in the cave, he found four other Indras exactly like himself.
“The five Indras begged Shiva to set them free. ‘You will recover your celestial status,’ said Shiva, ‘but only after you have been born in the world of mortals.’ The Indras asked that they should at least have gods as their fathers. ‘Let the gods Dharma, Vayu, Indra and the Ashvins be our begetters.’ Shiva agreed to this, and so it was that five remarkable sons were born to Pandu. Shiva also decreed that Shri, goddess of royal fortune, would be their shared wife in the world of men.
“Supreme Vishnu approved this arrangement. He plucked from his own head one white hair and one black hair, and placed them in human wombs. These were born as Krishna and Balarama.
“So, you see,” said Vyasa to Drupada,
“what seems to you contrary to dharma
is, in fact, celestially ordained.”
Drupada gave in. “If the great Shiva
himself has blessed this marriage, my clear duty
is to make it possible.” So it was
that Draupadi became the willing bride
of all five brothers. On successive days,
in order of their age, they married her.
And it is said that, for each one of them,
she came as a virgin to the bridal bed.
Drupada, having overcome his scruples,
exulted in the fortune that had brought him
five great sons-in-law instead of one.
He gave them all spacious living quarters
and every luxury and entertainment.
Krishna and Balarama spent time with them
and the cousins became deeply attached.
Krishna and Arjuna, in particular,
developed a profound friendship.
The brothers
were happy in Kampilya. But very often
their thoughts would travel to Hastinapura.
Sitting together in the cool of evening
they wondered what Duryodhana was planning.
They knew their cousin, knew only too well
his vengeful, proud and avaricious nature.
But they had found safety with Drupada
and, though it could not last, although they felt
they would grow slack without the discipline
and challenges that came with their heritage,
they gave themselves, for now, to the delight
of family, of friendship and of love.