18.
“How did the son of Dhritarashtra feel,”
asked Janamejaya, “when the Pandavas
rode away with all their wealth intact?”
Vaishampayana answered readily.
You can imagine Duryodhana’s rage
when he heard the king dismantling
everything he and Shakuni had achieved.
He and his uncle formed a simple plan.
He held his peace until the dust had settled
in the wake of the departing chariot wheels,
then went to Dhritarashtra.
“Do you think
that by restoring all their wealth and assets
to my cousins, all can be as before?
How wrong you are! The Pandavas will never
forget how Draupadi was insulted.
As we speak, the angry sons of Pandu,
before they have even reached Indraprastha,
are planning their revenge—Arjuna flexing
his bow, Gandiva, Bhima whirling his mace,
the others urging on their horses, eager
to gather an invincible fighting force,
summoning their allies from far and near
to march on Hastinapura.
“Remember,
a wise ruler deals with his enemies
before they grow in strength. Listen, Father,
our hope lies in the saintly Yudhishthira.
If you summon him to play another
game of dice, his honor won’t allow him
to refuse you. He’s bound to lose again.
This time round, we will propose new terms:
just one throw each, and let the stake be this—
that whoever loses will relinquish
his kingdom to the other. For twelve years
that loser will be exiled in the forest;
the thirteenth year must be spent in public,
incognito. If he is recognized,
then another thirteen years of exile
must begin. But if he succeeds in hiding
his identity, then his former kingdom
will be returned to him. Those will be the terms
of the wager. But in fact, by then,
we will have used his absence to assemble
a huge and loyal army, and to garner
powerful allies; so, if it comes to war,
we will easily defeat the Pandavas.”
Ignoring the advice of wise counselors,
the king, fearing the vengeance of his nephews,
prepared to send after Yudhishthira
with this renewed summons. Queen Gandhari
came and pleaded with him. She loved her son
but she feared the portents, and knew disaster
dwelt in the person of Duryodhana.
“I understand, my lord, why, at his birth,
you could not bring yourself to kill our son,
a helpless infant—despite the prophecy
and worthy Vidura’s advice. But now
you must oppose him. Surely it is fathers
who should dictate to sons, not the reverse.
The great-hearted Pandavas agree to peace.
You must lead Duryodhana by example
before he brings down ruin on us all.”
“If fate decrees the ruin of our race,”
said Dhritarashtra, “I cannot oppose it.
Let the Pandavas return. Let our son
gamble once more with Yudhishthira.”
A messenger pursued the Pandavas
and caught up with them on the road to home.
They were shocked and angry, but Yudhishthira
felt unable to refuse the summons.
“What happens to us, good and bad, depends
on what’s ordained. Whether I accept
or refuse, in the end it makes no difference.”
Sorrowful, head bowed, Yudhishthira
seated himself before the gaming table,
flanked by his four brothers, oppressed by fate.
In the tense silence before play began
his eyes happened to fall on Karna’s feet.
They struck him as familiar. Then he forgot.
Opposite, Shakuni smiled unctuously.
He explained the new terms of the game,
what was at stake. Yudhishthira’s face was blank.
He threw. Shakuni threw, and “Look,” he said,
“Look, I have won!”
At once, the Pandavas
prepared for exile, shedding their princely clothes,
wrapping themselves in crudely cured deerskins,
Draupadi still wearing her bloodstained robe.
Duhshasana could not contain his glee
and danced around the brothers, taunting them.
“These sons of Pandu are no men, they’re eunuchs!
All this time they have been puffed up with pride,
contemptuous of the sons of Dhritarashtra,
but now they are brought crashing to the earth.
Choose a different husband, Draupadi—
the Pandavas are nothing now, mere husks
without substance.”
As they left the hall,
Duryodhana did a grotesque imitation
of Bhima’s leonine walk. “You stupid fool,”
said Wolf-belly, “your idiotic antics
will come back to haunt you when I tear you
limb from limb, and break that thigh of yours,
and when I rip open Duhshasana’s chest
and drink his blood.”
“Be sure,” said Arjuna
“that Bhima’s words are true.” He turned to Karna.
“More certain than the sun’s brightness, more certain
than the moon’s coldness is this vow of mine:
that thirteen years from now, I will dispatch you,
son of Radha, to the realm of Death
if, on that day, our kingdom is not returned.”
Yudhishthira said farewell to Bhishma
who blessed him. “Son, by your worthy actions
you have surpassed even your ancestors.
Go well. I shall look to your return.”
Vidura proposed to Yudhishthira
that Kunti, being frail with age, should stay
in Hastinapura, with him, and not face
the rigors of the forest. Pale, sobbing,
Kunti said goodbye to her mighty sons.
Taking Draupadi aside, she said,
“My dear one, I know you are strong and brave.
You will come through this. Please keep special watch
on Sahadeva, my youngest, favorite son.
Help him to guard against despondency.
Oh, why has this disaster befallen you?
It must be due to my own ill fortune.
If I had known my family would wander
the pathless forest, having lost everything,
I never would have brought my growing sons
to Hastinapura after Pandu’s death.
Pandu, I now think, was most fortunate
only to know our sons in times of joy;
he never dreamed of sorrow such as this.”
As the Pandavas walked through the city
Yudhishthira draped his shawl across his face
lest his furious glance should cast the evil eye.
Bhima strode with his massive arms outspread
to strike fear in the hearts of his opponents.
Arjuna scattered sand as he walked along,
each grain standing for an enemy
he would one day strike down with his arrows.
Sahadeva had covered up his face,
while Nakula, lest women should weep for him,
had smeared himself with dust from head to foot.
Draupadi said, “As I am stained with blood,
so, thirteen years from now, Kaurava women
will be smeared with the blood of their slaughtered sons
and offer up oblations for their dead.”
Crowds of grieving people lined the streets.
Then the Pandavas passed through the city gate
accompanied by devoted brahmins
led by Dhaumya, their household priest,
holding sacrificial kusa grass,
intoning the most somber Vedic verses.
Shortly after the unfortunate exiles,
no longer visible to straining eyes,
had disappeared among the forest trees,
the sky became green, and grew strangely dark
as if the forces of the night were coveting
the brilliance of day. There were other portents
and premonitions, dreams and appearances,
so that dread, rather than joy, soon pervaded
Dhritarashtra’s court. The seer Narada
appeared and addressed the Kauravas: “Take heed!
In thirteen years, you misguided princes
who hear my words now will die violently
through Duryodhana’s actions, and through the might
of the Pandavas.” And, having spoken,
the seer strode up into the sky and vanished.
Duryodhana, Karna and Duhshasana
were horrified, and appealed to Drona
to protect them from the wrath to come.
“The Pandavas are sons of gods,” said Drona,
“and it is said that they can not be killed.
Nevertheless, when the time comes, I shall not
abandon those who ask for my protection,
even though I know my life is forfeit.
Dhrishtadyumna, prince of the Panchalas,
has sworn to kill me, to avenge his father.
He will surely succeed on the battlefield.”
Dhritarashtra, listening, said, “Vidura,
bring back the Pandavas. Or, if it’s too late,
at least send them our blessings.” And he sat
wringing his hands. His attendant, Sanjaya,
questioned him. “Why do you fret and groan—
you have obtained vast wealth, and the whole kingdom.”
“Ah,” said Dhritarashtra, “I can only think
of the future, and its terrible punishment.”
“My lord, that is your doing,” said Sanjaya.
“You would not listen to the words of wisdom
offered by Vidura, nor to the portents.
Through his wickedness, your foolish son
will be the death of all the Kauravas.”
“It is the work of fate,” sighed Dhritarashtra.
“I always try to make the best decisions,
but when the gods intend someone’s defeat
they first make him mad, so that the wrong course
seems to him the right one. The power of fate
can be simply this twisted view of things.
All else follows. The Pandavas will never
forgive the way Draupadi was insulted.
Knowing their strength, and aware that Krishna
is their ally, I have never wanted
conflict with them. Yet my foolishness,
my great love for my son, will bring about
the all-consuming tragedy of war.”