IV
25.
Twelve years were over. Now the Pandavas
must think how best to live unrecognized
during their final year—though, thanks to Dharma,
their success was certain. Where should they go?
After the interminable seclusion
of the forest, they welcomed the prospect
of life in a city—somewhere not too close,
and not too famous, a pleasant backwater.
Arjuna, well-traveled, named a number
of delightful kingdoms with hospitable
rulers who reigned from well-appointed cities,
and of these Yudhishthira chose Matsya,
a wealthy kingdom ruled by King Virata.
He discussed the prospect with his brothers.
“We will take employment with the king.
Now, sons of Kunti, say what kind of work
you are best fitted for. What disguises,
what false identities can you sustain
plausibly until our exile ends?
“I myself will be a brahmin, ‘Kanka.’
I have become quite learned in the Vedas;
and I can offer the king my mastery
at dice! Remember, the sage Brihadashva
taught me how to win without cheating.
I shall enjoy rolling my fine dice
made of beryl, ivory, gold, ebony . . .
And if the king asks where I learned my skill
I’ll say I was once Yudhishthira’s close friend.
“But, Wolf-belly, you’ll find disguise a problem.
How many men are there as tall and strong
as you, or with so fiery a temper?”
“It’s true,” laughed Bhima, “that disguising me
is rather like trying to hide Mount Meru!
But I’ll be ‘Ballava,’ a master cook
experienced in every fine cuisine.
I’ll install myself in the royal kitchen
and curry favor with my toothsome curries!
I can give wrestling courses on the side.
I’m sure the king will love me when he samples
what I can do. And if he should ask questions
about my previous experience,
I’ll tell him that my expertise was honed
in the kitchens of King Yudhishthira
at Indraprastha—that should satisfy him!”
“And you, Arjuna?” asked Yudhishthira.
“The most distinguished warrior in the world,
eagle among men, brilliant as a god,
won’t find it easy to go unremarked.”
“These bowstring scars on my arms,” said Arjuna,
“may be a problem, but I’ll cover them
with bangles, braid my hair, wear women’s dress.
I’ll teach the ladies in the king’s seraglio
dancing, singing and all the female arts
I learned from the gandharvas in Indra’s realm.
I can play instruments, entertain the court
with beguiling tales as well as any bard.
I’ll pose as a eunuch, a transvestite,
woman with a flute, ‘Brihannada’!”
Nakula proposed to seek employment
with the horses in the royal stables.
He excelled at all equestrian skills,
and was a master tamer of wild horses,
no matter how intransigent or vicious.
He loved them; and he had acquired the art
of healing them when they were sick or injured.
He would go by the name of “Granthika.”
The region of the Matsyas was well known
for its plump and fertile cattle. Sahadeva
had never been happier than in the days
when he had supervised the royal herds
of Indraprastha. Now he would persuade
King Virata that the cattle stations
would flourish under his good management.
He would call himself “Tantipala.”
What of the virtuous Draupadi? Her husbands
hated the thought of their beloved wife
condemned to drudgery. But she was scornful
of their scruples. “Do you really think
I’m too weak for the life of a maidservant
after what I have gone through in the forest?
After what happened in the gambling hall?
I shall play the part of a chambermaid,
‘Sairandhri,’ a woman free to find her own
employment. But I shall say I have a husband—
five, in fact, gandharvas, strong celestials—
who will fight for my honor if required.
I shall enter the service of Queen Sudeshna,
arrange her hair, mix her creams and lotions,
help to dress her, advise her if required.
If I am questioned, I shall say that, once,
I was a handmaid to Queen Draupadi.”
They left their forest camp a few days early
so as to give Duryodhana’s spies the slip.
They said their heartfelt farewells to the brahmins
who had been with them for their whole exile,
consoling them and saying prayers for them.
Dhaumya gave them blessings for their journey
and words of wise advice.
“You must remember
you have never known a life of servitude
and there are gestures, postures, ways of moving
that will come naturally to you, but which
may cause offense when noticed in a servant.
Be vigilant. Take care not to arouse
envy or resentment. Neither too merry
nor too glum, too eager, too reluctant—
rather, be of even temperament,
wearing a habitual gentle smile.
That is the best way to survive at court.
“Speak to the king only when spoken to.
If he should ask you, ‘What is your opinion?’
search your mind for what will give him pleasure
and bring him profit—profit first and foremost.
Pay him compliments judiciously
but never make any reference to his wealth.
Be discreet, never repeat to others
what the king may say to you in confidence.
That is the best way to survive at court.
“A wise courtier knows that the king’s favor
is uncertain, and always strives to earn it.
Do not spend time with those whom the king dislikes,
nor be too friendly with the courtiers’ wives,
arousing jealousy. If the king gives you
gifts—whether vehicles, clothes or jewels—
be grateful, and make sure he sees you use them.
“The successful courtier emulates the king
but never rivals him. Faced with some errand
he leaps to volunteer; the king’s interests
must come before those of his own family.
That is the best way to survive at court.”
So saying, Dhaumya blessed them yet again.
Yudhishthira expressed his gratitude
and the Pandavas set out on the long walk
to their new place of refuge. They followed
the winding course of the Kalindi River,
through Dasharna, then south of Panchala,
avoiding any towns or villages
and, after crossing miles of wilderness,
reached the outskirts of their destination,
the handsome capital of Virata’s realm.
Yudhishthira gave the brothers secret names,
for an emergency, auspicious names
invoking victory—Jaya, Jayatsena,
Jayanta, Vijaya and Jayadbala.
Before the Pandavas entered the city
they needed to discard their warriors’ weapons.
On a hill outside the city walls,
there was a desolate cremation ground,
a doleful place where no one ever loitered;
and there they saw a towering shami tree,
difficult to climb and with thick foliage.
Nakula shinned up, and stowed away
the brothers’ bows that had achieved such feats,
their swords, and other oiled and well-made weapons,
tying them fast with rope to a thick branch
where they could not be seen, and where the rain
would not fall on them. As a precaution,
he tied a stinking corpse to another branch
so people would avoid the tree in horror.
Yudhishthira told curious passersby
this practice was a family tradition,
and the corpse was that of his ancient mother.
Entering the city, Yudhishthira
went straight to the palace and sought audience
with King Virata. “Sir, I am a brahmin
seeking a position at your court
having lost my wealth.”
Virata was impressed
by his appearance. “Just look at the man—
he does not seem a brahmin, more like a god.
Tell me your name, stranger, and where you come from.”
“I was once a friend of King Yudhishthira.
I am an expert gambler—see my dice.
My name is Kanka.”
“Splendid!” said Virata.
“Make your home here, enjoying every comfort.
You should rule the kingdom by my side!”
Later, Bhima sought an audience.
Broad-shouldered as a lion, dressed all in black,
he carried cook’s equipment. “Great king,” he said,
“I am Ballava, great master chef.
Once, I was cook to King Yudhishthira
and he would eat my dishes with delight.
On the side, I am a champion wrestler
and my skill in fighting lions and tigers
will entertain you—if you will employ me.”
“What an amazing man!” exclaimed Virata.
“You shall certainly rule over my kitchens,
although, judging by the look of you,
you should be ruling Matsya instead!”
Arjuna, Nakula and Sahadeva,
clothed in their false names and histories,
presented themselves in turn, and all were met
with a similarly generous welcome.
Each found his place, as planned, within the court.
All were paid a handsome wage, and no one
thought to challenge their identities.
Dark-eyed Draupadi wandered near the palace
dressed in a single black and dirty garment,
looking troubled. Virata’s wife, Sudeshna,
standing on her balcony, noticed her
and had her summoned. “Good heavens, my dear,
what are you doing, hanging about the court
unprotected? You are so beautiful!
Your hair is glossy, your breasts and buttocks round,
your movements graceful, your face like the full moon,
and your eyes and mouth are perfect. Tell me,
who are you?”
“I am a chambermaid,”
said Draupadi. “I will work for anyone
who will feed me, clothe me and give me shelter.
I have worked for Satyabhama, Krishna’s wife,
and for Queen Draupadi at Indraprastha.
I can dress hair, I can make fine unguents.
But I won’t eat leftovers, nor will I wash
the feet of anyone.”
Sudeshna smiled.
“You look more like a goddess than a maid.
I would like you to enter my own service,
but that might well be marital suicide.
If I took you in, I’d be like the crab
whose embryo destroys her from within.
Once my husband glimpsed your voluptuous shape
he would instantly fall in love with you
and cast me off!”
“Madam,” said Draupadi,
“have no fear of that. I am married
to five strong, invisible gandharvas
who guard me constantly. Any man
who looks at me with lustful disrespect
is dead meat, believe me!” Reassured,
resolving to inform Virata, the queen
happily welcomed Draupadi as her maid,
to dress her hair, and that of her entourage,
prepare her unguents, look after her clothes
and generally become a useful presence.
As the months went by, the Pandavas
were well liked in their various occupations.
Yudhishthira won popularity
with the courtiers, and with Virata,
by entertaining them at games of dice.
Arjuna kept largely out of sight
in the seraglio, where all the women
loved him. During his years in Indra’s realm,
he had learned to sing and dance exquisitely
and, as we know, women love nothing more
than a man—or even half a man—
who is a gifted dancer. So Arjuna
danced for them, and taught them skillful steps,
showed them how to undulate seductively,
how to cast their eyes in languorous glances
and invitingly flutter their fingers.
In the royal kitchens, Wolf-belly Bhima
grew even more enormous. He was happy
and so was the whole court. Never before
had they looked forward quite so ardently
to the next meal. And when he was not cooking,
Bhima coached the young men of the court
in wrestling—a sport of special interest
since, every year, at the festival of Brahma,
people flocked to the city from far and wide
to take part in a wrestling championship
hosted by King Virata.
So in the spring,
some months after the Pandavas’ arrival,
huge, powerful men gathered in the arena,
strutting, flexing their oiled and bulging muscles.
One wrestler in particular, Jimuta,
a great hulk, lorded over the event,
so far outclassing all other contestants
that the tournament became quite dull.
The king ordered his cook to challenge him
which put Wolf-belly in a quandary—
he could not ignore the king’s command,
but if he beat the champion with ease
people might guess who he really was.
So, although he could have floored the strongman
with one arm tied, he went through all the motions
of girding himself up and oiling his body,
then puffed and heaved and grappled valiantly
before lifting the brute, whirling him round,
flinging him to the ground winded. Defeated.
After that, the king often asked Bhima
to fight, and when no one would stand up with him,
he pitted him against tigers and elephants
and had him entertain the seraglio
by entering the ring with full-grown lions.
Ten months had gone by, and the sons of Pandu
still lived unrecognized, in a condition
of quiet contentment. But not Draupadi.
The queen’s lecherous brother, Kichaka
(chief of the army, powerful at court
and throughout the kingdom), had noticed her
and made advances. She rejected him
and he, besotted with her, swore he’d send
all his wives away if she would marry him.
“Out of the question—I am already married.
You’re like an infant, crying for the moon.
If you persist, my five gandharva husbands
will destroy you.”
Then lustful Kichaka,
on a flimsy pretext, had Sudeshna
send Draupadi on an errand to his house
where he lewdly assaulted her. She ran
into the hall where the men were gathered,
Kichaka chasing her, grabbing her hair
and kicking her. Yudhishthira and Bhima
were choking with outrage and sympathy
but they held back. They would risk exposure
if they gave the man the beating he deserved—
for saving a mere maid from the attentions
of the marshal of the realm.
But Draupadi,
still guarding her disguise, spoke for herself:
“Am I, the proud wife of five strong gandharvas,
to be kicked and mauled by this lawless brute?
Where are my husbands? Surely, if they were here
they would defend me, for how could they bear
to see their cherished wife defiled like this?
O king, it is your dharma to protect me—
why do you sit silent? It is an outrage
that I should be manhandled by this lout
here, in your very presence!” The courtiers
applauded her, but Virata looked aside,
dependent as he was on Kichaka.
Yudhishthira, though his temples throbbed with rage,
spoke mildly, “Chambermaid, it is not proper
that you are running here and running there
like some dancing girl. You are disrupting
our game of dice. Seek refuge with the queen.
No doubt your husbands will do what you wish
when it is the right time, in their judgment.”
“My husbands are tolerant,” snapped Draupadi,
“and yet they are no strangers to misfortune
since the eldest is a gambler!”
With that,
Draupadi stormed off to the queen’s apartments.
Sudeshna took her side, “That brother of mine
deserves to die for what he did to you!”
In the night, Draupadi could not sleep,
tossed by the furious grievance that consumed her.
She left her bed and went to waken Bhima,
certain of his concern. All her troubles
came pouring out. “Every day I have to see
my husbands eat dust—our Yudhishthira,
once the great emperor, now a gamester
on wages! You, wrestling lions to entertain
the women—I feel faint when I see that,
and they tease me, say I’m sweet on the cook!
And Arjuna—a pathetic dancing master!
Sahadeva . . . and Nakula! Well,
when I see all this, I ask myself
how I can go on living. And my own life—
mixing sandalwood paste for my ‘mistress,’
ruining my hands.” Then Wolf-belly
placed her roughened hands against his cheeks
and wept for her.
“But, Bhima, worst of all—
that goat Kichaka won’t leave me alone.
I can’t endure it! I want you to kill him.
Break him, like a pot hurled onto stone!
Do this for me.” Together, they devised
a plan.
Next day Draupadi forced herself
to smile at Kichaka, and she suggested
that they meet each other secretly
in the dance pavilion when night fell.
The man was thrilled, even more enamored.
He went home, doused himself in fragrant oils,
dressed in fine garments and, at dead of night,
crept unnoticed into the pavilion.
He could just make out the padded couch
and saw Draupadi, lying there already,
her body draped in silk, her head covered.
“My lovely one,” Kichaka crooned, approaching,
“I have conferred money and jewels upon you.
I have anointed myself with rare perfume.
Not for nothing do my women say,
‘Kichaka, you’re the handsomest man alive!’”
“How fortunate,” murmured a muffled voice.
“Oh, how voluptuous you are, you handful
of gorgeousness!” and he reached out to squeeze
the ample hips. “Your skin smells so delicious . . .”
And those were the last words he ever spoke.
The covers flew apart and, with a roar,
Bhima leapt up and seized Kichaka’s throat
in an iron grip. Kichaka struggled free
and the two men wrestled. But it was not long
before the villain’s every rib was cracked,
his head and limbs were crushed inside his body
and his spine folded like a broken reed.
Draupadi was exultant. She called the guards
and Kichaka’s kinsmen quickly gathered,
and were appalled. “Here is your flesh and blood,”
said Draupadi, “well punished by my husbands,
my five strong gandharvas, for lusting after
a married woman.”
The dead man’s relatives,
bent on vengeance, made the king agree
that she would burn on Kichaka’s funeral pyre—
she would satisfy his lust in death at least.
As she was carried to the cremation ground
Draupadi shrieked her husbands’ secret names
and Bhima, bursting from his room, his rage
making him swell to twice his usual size,
ran to the place. Uprooting a massive tree,
roaring mightily, he scattered the mourners.
“A gandharva! A gandharva!” they cried,
unable to see clearly in the dark,
and, releasing Draupadi, they fled
toward the city. But Bhima pursued them
like the god of death himself, and slaughtered
more than a hundred of the marshal’s kinsmen.
Then he strolled off to his kitchen work.
The whole city was buzzing with the news
of the massacre at the cremation ground.
A deputation went to see the king.
“Your majesty, the whole court is in danger
from that woman—she is too beautiful,
and men will naturally lust after her.
But her husbands’ vengeance is terrifying—
You must do something.”
Virata was alarmed.
This chambermaid was nothing but disaster,
what with her beauty and her vengeful husbands.
He told his wife to dismiss Draupadi.
But the chambermaid requested a delay
of thirteen days, and Sudeshna agreed
to her request—if she could guarantee
there would be no more visits from gandharvas.
In thirteen days, the thirteenth year would end.