FORTY-EIGHT
After some days of walking through jungles full of exotic birds and beasts, tangled valleys full of flowers and past lakes brimming with lotuses and swans, they arrived in southern Panchala, Drupada's kingdom; and a day later in Kampilya, that king's capital.
Inside the city, preparations were in full swing for the princess Draupadi's swayamvara. The Pandavas found a friendly carpenter who was willing to take in five brahmanas and their regal-looking mother and they began living in a room he gave them.
As in Ekachakra, the princes still lived off alms. Like any mendicants, they went begging each morning and returned by midday with the food they gathered. Kunti divided what they brought among her sons. As they roamed the thronging streets of Kampilya, the princes heard from the people:
"Drupada has no doubt the Pandavas are alive. The rishis have told him Draupadi will be Arjuna's wife."
"The king has a mighty bow that few men can even lift. A wooden fish hung a hundred hands in the air is the target. The fish spins at great speed and only the archer who brings it down with an arrow will win Draupadi's hand."
"The archers may not aim directly at the fish, only at its reflection in a trough of water."
"Drupada is sure only Arjuna can shoot the fish."
"A man who is meant to be dead!"
"We can hardly wait for the day."
The Pandavas and Arjuna himself would go quietly among the people, listening to all this. They, also, princes disguised as brahmanas, waited impatiently for the day of the swayamvara.
Meanwhile, kshatriyas from all over Bharatavarsha had arrived in Kampilya. They came from kingdoms far and near to try their luck with the bow and the spinning fish. Besides, Drupada's hospitality was legendary.
Even before the Pandavas, the Kauravas had come to Kampilya, with Duryodhana and Karna. The Yadavas—the Bhojas, Vrishnis and Andhakas—had arrived in the city, heroic kshatriyas all. Among the Yadavas was dark Krishna of Mathura, Vishnu's Avatara, whose life was to become inextricably involved with the Pandavas' lives. They were destined to become his warriors of light one day, most of all, Arjuna.
At last, the day of moment dawned, bright and clear, birds hymning in the trees and all Kampilya was up with the sun. The arena of the swayamvara was an unforgettable spectacle. Every seat was taken. Brahmanas and rishis sat in their enclosures. The common people had thronged in thousands into the immense stadium: gaudily attired, as was their way, garlands round their necks, perfume in their clothes and on their skins, excited beyond measure.
The finest sight was the enclosure of the kshatriyas who had come to vie for Draupadi's hand. It was filled with the noblest warriors in Bharatavarsha: each a lion, every one a rival today.
They say the Devas of heaven had gathered in the sky in invisible vimanas and peered down to watch Draupadi's swayamvara. Five kshatriyas disguised as brahmanas, their faces covered by heavy beards and masked with ashes, their hair matted in jata, also found their way into the arena. They mingled with the other brahmanas and were careful not to enter or sit together.
Deep sea-conches sounded, calling the feverish crowd to be silent. Drum-rolls rose and faded and rose again, as the crowd fell hushed and all eyes were riveted to the arched entrance from the palace.
For a moment, everyone in that stadium was breathless for the princess Draupadi's arrival; then, her brother Dhrishtadyumna led her in. She wore resonant red silk, golden ornaments and flashing jewels. All these paled before her dark, mysterious beauty. A sigh rose from the crowd when she walked in. She was, beyond doubt, the most beautiful woman in the world. She was more, she was unearthly. Yet, there was something fateful about her as well, something frightening: beauty like hers did not belong in this world.
The Pandavas' wildest fantasies, which had their way with them since the traveling muni told them about her, did Draupadi no justice. She was lovelier than all their imaginings. Like everyone else in the arena, Pandu's sons sat like infatuated boys, their eyes never leaving her face.
The crowd had fallen silent in awe of the dark princess. You heard only the drone of the priests chanting mantras, as they poured libation over the ritual fire. At the heart of the arena was a dais and now Dhrishtadyumna climbed onto this platform.
The fire-born prince's voice was muted thunder, as he announced, "We have come together for my sister Draupadi's swayamvara. Here is a bow and here are five arrows. Above me is a matsya yantra, just visible through the opening in the screen below it. At my feet is the vessel of water in which the archers must aim at the spinning fish's reflection. My father, king Drupada, has said that he who brings down the fish shall have my sister's hand."
Dhrishtadyumna turned to Draupadi now and named the kings and warriors who had come to try to win her.
"Duryodhana, prince of the Kurus, among his brothers. Karna, king of Anga, Duryodhana's dearest friend, now said to be the best archer in the world. Drona's son Aswatthama and Duryodhana's uncle Shakuni."
One by one, Dhrishtadyumna pointed out the great kshatriyas: Jarasandha, Shalya, Bhagadatta1. Draupadi hardly looked at them, because her eyes always sought another face in the crowd.
"Balarama of the Vrishnis and beside him, Devaki's son Krishna, who the wise say is the Avatara."
Draupadi bowed slightly to dark Krishna, who smiled back at her. His eyes were so different from all the others', so knowing and friendly. Krishna would take no part in the test of archery, said Dhrishtadyumna, nor his brother Balarama or any of the other Yadavas. He passed on to Jayadratha, king of the Sindhus, then to Sishupala, lord of the Chedis and on to the rest.
There was a reason why Krishna would not compete for Draupadi's hand. In his immaculate heart, he knew why this ravishing princess had been born into the world: to be his own agent, to help catalyze what he himself had come for. To rid the earth of her burden, the arrogant sway of the kshatriya. This was the very end of the dwapara yuga and it was written that the next age, the kali yuga, would be ruled by the sudra, mysterious are the ways of time. He, dark deliverer, would become the bane of the kshatriyas, who must not survive to dominate the coming and lesser age. Krishna had come to end a yuga.
Moreover, knowing all things, he knew the Pandavas were not dead. His eyes also roved the swollen crowd in search of his cousins, who would become his soldiers in his war against evil. Though Kunti was his father Vasudeva's sister, Krishna had never seen the Pandavas before. He had no doubt that as soon as he did he would know them, even in a crowd like this one. While every other gaze in the arena was peeled to the stunning Draupadi, Krishna's ranged the jostling tiers for the sons of Pandu.
Meanwhile, Dhrishtadyumna invited the first kshatriya archer to try to bring down the fish. The great bow had come into the House of Panchala in times out of mind, days when Gods moved openly in the world and kshatriyas were hardly less than Devas. It was the Kindhura and it had not been fashioned on earth. Only the most exceptional archers of this dwindled time could hope to even lift
1. Several other kshatriyas are named here. See Appendix.
that bow, let alone string it and shoot with it. The Kindhura's bowstring sparkled as if it was made with thousands of minute diamonds.
As the first archer mounted the dais, Draupadi and her twin climbed down and stood a small way off. This prince was a handsome young kshatriya. He was the first aspirant and the crowd cheered him loudly. Grinning, Yuyutsu, whom Duryodhana had sent to test the bow, strutted briefly on the dais, his body glowing with the oil with which he had rubbed himself. Raising his arms for silence, he said a brief prayer. His eyes strayed helplessly to the bewitching Draupadi. Yuyutsu bent quickly and clasped both his hands around the bow.
It was now Krishna spotted five brahmanas, whose eyes never left Draupadi, not even to glance at Yuyutsu: as if they focused on an archer's target! He pointed them out to his brother Balarama, whispering, "Look, they are here. Like live embers covered with brahmanas' ashes."
Poor Yuyutsu was having a hard time. The muscles stood out on his arms and his back, beads of sweat on his face. That bow would not budge. At last, with a cry of frustration, he gave up and stood panting. A rueful smile and a wave at the crowd and Yuyutsu climbed down. The crowd cheered him for his effort and the other kings for his failure. Draupadi's eyes shone with satisfaction. Krishna watched his Pandava cousins. Each of them sighed in relief that the bow was truly such an awesome one. The Avatara smiled to himself. Only he knew something of the long hard way that lay ahead of that supernaturally beautiful princess and her suitors.
The next kshatriya approached the platform. The common folk of Kampilya snickered among themselves; the mighty Kindhura would easily resist this mawkish prince, who was far too young anyway. Surely enough, after a valiant effort, he also failed to lift the bow from its pedestal and returned rather shame-faced to his place. But the crowd cheered him anyway, one spark crying, "Come back next year, son!"
But not all the warriors in that swayamvara were as easily frustrated by the Kindhura. There were many tremendous kshatriyas among them; Sishupala was the first. He was Krishna's cousin and the Pandavas' as well. He was a pale man, a giant, known as the Bull of Chedi.
A hush fell over the arena. Sishupala rose from his place, his head clean-shaven and gleaming in the sun and his eyes shone as well. If any kshatriya so far seemed capable of lifting the bow, stringing it and, perhaps, even bringing down the spinning fish, it was this bull-like man.
For a long moment, Sishupala stood very still on the dais, breathing deeply and his eyes shut. Then he bowed to Draupadi and, with a smile on his haughty face, picked up the Kindhura quite easily. The crowd moaned. With no effort, Sishupala pulled the glittering bowstring taut and secured it.
The silence deepened on the crowd. Anyone who looked closely would have seen that Draupadi's hands shook. Sishupala picked up his first arrow and the princess was as tense as his bowstring. The king of Chedi drew the string to his ear and, taking aim in the silver trough at his feet, shot his first arrow at the fish. He missed by the width of a sesame seed. Only Krishna saw Draupadi visibly relax; and then she was tense again, because Sishupala picked up his next arrow.
Again, he missed so narrowly he took the crowd's breath away. But when he shot his second arrow, the bow came alive and, with a crack like thunder, flung the archer down. The crowd roared.
Groggily, Sishupala rose to his feet. The Kindhura had drained him. He staggered toward the bow, but now he could not lift it. He bowed quickly to the crowd and, hanging his head, walked back to his place.
Draupadi's eyes were alight, as if her life had been spared. Next came Jarasandha of Magadha, powerful king and Krishna's inveterate enemy. He, too, picked up the bow with no effort and, peering into the silver vessel, shot four arrows at the fish while Draupadi held her breath as if the shafts were aimed at her heart. She was praying. She had never set eyes on Arjuna, about whom she had heard so much from her father and she was praying that only he would bring down the fish. Now, in fierce reality, Jarasandha missed the spinning thing four times by no more than a breadth of a mustard seed. Each time, Draupadi felt her heart stop beating and every arrow took a lifetime to travel between Jarasandha's brutal hands and the target. She felt she lived and died four lives.
Dhrishtadyumna touched her shoulder and whispered, "It is twice as hard to bring down the fish as it is to string the bow."
Jarasandha could not shoot the fifth arrow and Draupadi heaved another sigh. Duryodhana rose next and his was a potent and sinister presence. Draupadi shivered to look at him; his hooded eyes raked her. She felt alone and vulnerable, as if he stripped her naked with those dreadful eyes.
Duryodhana also strung the bow effortlessly. The people of Kampilya were terrified lest this devil win their princess. Dhrishtadyumna, who knew what a monster Dhritarashtra's son was, quailed at the thought of his sister married to him. Duryodhana picked up his first arrow and sent it humming at the fish. The world stood still. Then, the very crowd sighed: the evil prince had missed. He missed again and twice more. He shook with rage, as if the contest had been contrived just to humiliate him.
Duryodhana's last arrow missed the fish by the breadth of the little finger on a man's hand. With a tigerish growl, he let the bow fall. He bowed stiffly to the crowd, but no one clapped. Well aware of the ominous effect he had, he turned to Draupadi and smiled blandly at her. She looked away. Seething, Duryodhana stalked back to his seat. This princess had touched his malignant heart as no other woman ever. Night after night, he would dream of her face and her dark body, as he saw it now, naked in his mind's eye.
Krishna missed none of this and he knew the conclusion to which it would lead one day. Today was only the sowing of a seed. When it was grown, the plant of hatred which sprang from that seed would choke all kshatriya kind and have the heads of countless kings for its fruit.
Now Karna of Anga rose from his place beside Duryodhana and the Kuru camp erupted in wild cheering. This was the man Draupadi and Drupada feared the most. He was lithe and sleek, a warrior of presence and power, said, after the burning of the house of lac, to be unquestionably the best bowman on earth. His tread was soft, his quietness resoundingly assured, as he approached the dais like a hunting tiger.
The golden armor he had been born with, which was part of his very skin, shone dully beneath his pale silk shirt. The crowd fell quiet. Karna did not so much as glance at Draupadi and her blood ran cold. Unlike all the others, he did not mount the platform straightaway. Truly like a stalking feline, he walked round and round the stage, studying the spinning fish from every side and angle.
Five princes, disguised as brahmanas, shivered as they watched Karna. Sweat broke out on their bodies. They knew he was the one who could find the target. Karna's concentration was elemental. Even blue Krishna was tense, looking on with anxiety in his eyes. The Avatara knew this archer was the only real danger.
Leisurely, Karna padded around the bow, the water and the fish, many times, unraveling the riddle of the revolving target. At last, he seemed satisfied and a smile touched his lips. Now he gave Draupadi a searing look, as if she were already his. She knew this was not just arrogance but the confidence of an immaculate archer. She felt as if a demon had embraced her.
Karna climbed the dais and paused at the foot of the bow. He turned his face to the sky, where the sun was at his zenith. That warrior seemed to pray. Then a light touched his graceful body and he picked up the Kindhura in his left hand.
Dhrishtadyumna and Draupadi stood at the foot of the dais, not five paces from Karna as he fitted the first arrow to the string. Draupadi's heart was in her mouth, as he began to draw the bowstring to his ear. He bent to peer into the water at his feet. Above him, the fish glittered strangely now and seemed brighter than ever: as if the sun lit it up for this archer. It even seemed the fish did not spin any more but hung still, grown big as a whale, so a child could shoot it.
Draupadi felt as if someone was choking her. She was certain Karna would bring the fish down. She wanted to scream, to flee. The string was drawn back now, the arrow aimed at the fish's eye.
Draupadi heard a voice from the crowd. Perhaps it was the blue Yadava's voice, but she could not be sure. Everything was a whirl, her life spun round with the wretched fish. The voice was saying, inside her head, "How can a princess like you marry a sutaputra?"
A moment before Karna shot his arrow, Draupadi cried to Dhrishtadyumna, "I will not marry a suta!"
Karna lurched as if someone had struck him; still, his arrow shaved the fish. Now his poise was shattered and he flashed Draupadi a look of untold hatred. His hands shook and his assurance was in shreds.
A murmur hummed through the crowd when Karna missed his mark. The people had been sure he would strike the target. Only Dhrishtadyumna and Karna heard what Draupadi said. Karna found the bow in his hands had grown intolerably heavy. It was all he could manage to shoot the next four arrows, but he had no hope of finding his mark. The Pandavas breathed again. So did dark Krishna, who a moment earlier had his eyes shut and seemed to Balarama to have been plunged in dhyana, as if he was sending his very thoughts out to someone.
Karna climbed down, burning with the insult. Kuru voices were raised in anger, "This target is impossible. We have been brought here to be made fools of."
"If Karna can't shoot the fish, no archer on earth can."
The kings who had not yet tried the bow now refused to mount the dais. Silence fell on the arena. What would become of Draupadi? Drupada could not hold another swayamvara with honor, nor could he make the archer's test simpler. Would Draupadi remain unmarried and a virgin? Such beauty wasted!
Then, like a flame from ashes, Arjuna stood up in the enclosure of the brahmanas. Krishna nudged Balarama. Arjuna began to walk toward the dais; a murmur rose among the brahmana elders.
"This is madness. The best kshatriyas in Bharatavarsha have failed to shoot the fish and this brahmana stripling dares approach the bow."
"He will bring ridicule on us all."
"Stop him."
To some others, the brahmana youth, his hair tangled in wild strands of jata, his face covered entirely in a thick beard and white ash, seemed radiant and strong. They cried, "He looks determined. Let him have his chance."
"There is no shame in failing here. Not even Karna of Anga has succeeded."
"He seems a poised young man."
"He seems powerful, let him try. He may cover us all in glory!"
The elders saw there was little to be lost and everything to gain. Sensing uncommon strength in the dark brahmana, they now said, "Let him have a turn, if it is allowed."
Arjuna walked up to Dhrishtadyumna and said quietly, "It seems the target is beyond the kshatriyas here. Is a brahmana allowed to shoot at the matsya yantra?"
The kshatriyas squirmed, though not for a moment did anyone imagine the young brahmana could bring down the spinning fish, when the likes of Jarasandha and Karna had failed. Some Kaurava princes cried mockingly, "Let the fool try. He doesn't know what a great bow is."
"Let him lift it first."
Dhrishtadyumna raised his hand for silence. He said to Arjuna, "A brahmana may certainly try to shoot the target. Anyone may try, be he a brahmana, a kshatriya, a vaishya or even a sudra. And you have my word, the man who brings down the fish will have my sister for his wife."
Of course, the reason for this was that Drupada had no idea in what guise Arjuna would come to the swayamvara. Arjuna bowed to Dhrishtadyumna. He turned to Draupadi and bowed to her; suddenly, she felt pierced, ah sweetly, by a shaft of love. She felt all her panic, that one of the kshatriyas may actually succeed, melt away when she looked into this young man's eyes. Draupadi felt fate move in her in a tide; she felt she already belonged to the brahmana. She began to pray that, whoever he was, he should not miss the fish. She did not care any more if Arjuna came to claim her. All she wanted, why, all she had been born for was this dark brahmana.
More graceful than Karna, Arjuna mounted the platform. He made a pradakshina, walking around the Kindhura. The only one so far to do this, he folded his hands to the ayudha. To the crowd's amazement, the young brahmana prostrated before it: as if he was worshipping his destiny.
Krishna leaned forward, his hand tight on Balarama's arm. Draupadi's heart fluttered madly again; but now every beat a prayer that the brahmana would not fail. Even Dhrishtadyumna found himself hoping, inexplicably, that the dark youth would succeed.
Arjuna rose again. He stepped up to the bow and lifted it. He strung it and still he was completely calm. Some rowdy kshatriyas, who had been drinking in the morning, had clapped and booed when Arjuna prostrated himself. They fell silent at the ease with which he picked up the bow and strung it. And the silence turned deafening when, hardly pausing to aim in the water, the young brahmana shot the five silver arrows in a blur: the shafts flashing up, one after the other, all in a single moment.
The fish fell, pierced along its length by five arrows. Into perfect silence fell a fragrant rain of barely tangible flowers, from Devaloka; there was subtle music in the sky. Only Krishna heard it or saw the fine petal-shower, for the commotion that erupted in the stadium, especially from the frenzied brahmanas.
Drupada on his throne saw what had happened. He heard the deep bass of conches, the thunder of the drums of Panchala, as Draupadi, graceful as a black swan on water, glided up to Arjuna and draped her garland around his neck.
The crowd began to sing and dance, as the Pandava took his bride's hand and came down the platform steps. They were like Indra and Shachi, like Agni and Svaha, Vishnu and Lakshmi, Surya with Usha, like Kama and Rati, Siva with Uma, like Rama with Seetha, Nala and Damayanti.
Drupada was excited. But he was not sure the young brahmana was Arjuna; though he was brilliant, all right and a better archer than Karna today. Dhrishtadyumna did not know who the young stranger was. As for Draupadi, she did not care: whoever he was, from now he was the lord of her heart and her life.