FIVE
After Krishna left, the Pandavas were dejected. They felt the need to leave the Kamyaka vana themselves. They saw his face everywhere, grave and merry and they missed him more than they could bear. A week after the Dark One's visit, the brothers sat together under the sage and friendly tree. Yudhishtira said, "The terms of our exile are that we must spend twelve years in a remote and inaccessible place, far from the habitations of men. This vana hardly fulfils those conditions. My own inclination is to find a jungle where rishis live, where we can pass our exile profitably."
Arjuna said, "You must decide where we should spend these twelve years."
Yudhishtira smiled, "Somehow, I think you have a suggestion to make, Arjuna."
"On my tirtha-yatra, I passed through a forest that may be the place you are looking for. It is called the Dwaitavana and it isn't far from here."
Yudhishtira looked at Bheema and when he nodded, they decided they would go to the Dwaitavana and spend some of the twelve years there. The Dwaitavana was indeed near the Kamyaka and they arrived there in a few days.
This was a different kind of forest, lighter, full of open spaces. It was more a vast and untamed garden than a jungle. There seemed to be no fear here and fine lakes abounded, overgrown with lotuses. The trees, too, were sturdier and grew further apart than those in the Kamyaka and their branches were homes for koyal, chakravaka and peacock.
There were no rakshasas in this vana and it fairly bristled with the asramas of rishis. These hermits welcomed the kshatriyas as if they were their own children. In their midst, the Pandavas began living in an asrama of their own, which they built beside a lake on which water birds swarmed, flown here from unknown ends of the earth.
These were blissful days for Yudhishtira; the sylvan Dwaitavana was ideally suited to his ascetic nature. It seemed the zephyrs that blew velvet ripples across the lake and ruffled the birds' bright plumage, also blew airy balm into the eldest Pandava's spirit. They brought him the distant peace of the mountains, in the lap of which he and his brothers had once been carefree boys.
Most of all, Yudhishtira loved the company of the rishis of the forest. They knew all about the Pandavas and constantly dropped in on them. These hermits had a fund of arcane lore, handed down the generations from guru to sishya: luminous puranic legends they never tired of recounting. The munis' lore was a sea of fascination on which the Pandavas voyaged. They learnt about the Earth's beginnings, of ages past that were mainly lost to the memories of men. Yudhishtira was perfectly happy: he was always more a sage at heart, than a king.
One day, as they sat on the steps of their hermitage built above the lake, Pandu's sons had an illustrious visitor. He arrived out of the blue, as if he had walked across the azure water. He seemed no more than sixteen summers old, but the rishis who were with the Pandavas prostrated themselves at his feet. One of those hermits whispered the name of the remarkable visitor, "Markandeya."
Yudhishtira rose and prostrated and his brothers and Draupadi did, as well; the ageless one laid his palm on their heads in blessing. It was by Siva's boon that Markandeya looked so young, for the Lord had blessed the muni with eternal youth. Markandeya sat with them on the asrama's wooden steps. They saw he gazed across the lake's rippling water and a smile lit his fine face, making him seem not sixteen but even thirteen years of age.
Then, Yudhishtira made bold to ask, "Anyone who has come to see us in exile has either been sad or angry at our condition. You alone, Markandeya, smile so wonderfully! Tell us why you smile, Muni, I am intrigued by your smile."
Markandeya laughed: a child's laugh and an ancient's. The rishi said, "Don't mistake me, Yudhishtira, I also grieve to see you like this. Yet, when I see you here with your wife and your brothers, I am reminded of another great soul. That memory makes me smile.
You remind me of Rama of Ayodhya: of how Kaikeyi banished him and he went into the deep Dandaka vana, with Lakshmana and Sita. He, too, could easily have stayed behind. His people were with him and he could have had his father's throne for the asking. Why, Dasaratha begged him to take it. But just like you, Yudhishtira, he would never leave the path of dharma.
I am much older than I seem, Pandava and with my own eyes I saw Rama upon the slopes of Rishyamooka, clad in tree-bark and deerskin, with the Kodanda in his hand, Lakshmana beside him and seeking Sita frantically. Rama, also, was like Indra born into the world: he was so noble, so splendid. His courage was immaculate; his wrath made the earth tremble. He could dry up the ocean and bring the stars down from the sky. Yet, he would not even think an evil thought, he was so pure."
Yudhishtira realized the remarkable seer's smile had been one of adoration. Markandeya nodded to himself, "Yes, the truly great kings of this world live on in men's memories not because of conquests, power or wealth, but because they walked the path of dharma unswervingly. Why, because of such men, the sun moves in his orbit and his shores contain the sea.
Think of Bhageeratha or Harishchandra, think of Rama. Yes, I smiled because you remind me so much of Rama. He was also banished to the forest and fate tried him sorely. But, at last, he returned to Ayodhya and he ruled the world."
The muni paused, then, said softly, "So will you rule the world, Yudhishtira. What is more, you will live for ever in the minds of men."
With that, he grew quiet and again gazed across the lake, which had now grown still as a mirror. It drew on noon and not a breath of air stirred in the forest.
Markandeya spent a few days with the Pandavas in their asrama and they would stay up into the small hours, sitting round a fire, listening to that rishi's lore. Of course, what set him apart as a raconteur was the fact that, like Narada, he had seen many of the events he described from the dimmest past with his own eyes. Those days were a joy and a deep education; but at last, promising to return to the asrama beside the lake, the rishi left.
Yudhishtira was more than happy in the Dwaitavana and with Markandeya's visit, the Pandava's cup was full. The forest was like Brahma's garden: the chanting of the Vedas was always in the air, enlivening it and tranquility seemed to rise from the lake and enfold him. Of course, nothing made Yudhishtira happier than the company of rishis. Early in the morning, they would arrive from their asramas strewn around the lake and stay until late into the night and then come again the next morning. And if they did not, Pandu's eldest son was off, as soon as he had bathed, to seek them out himself.
Truly, Yudhishtira was as happy in the wilderness as he had been in Indraprastha; probably, happier. Yet, he knew that not everyone with him felt as he did.
Bheema did not share his brother's joy and neither did Draupadi. These two despised the forest and could not wait for their exile to end. Unlike her husbands, Draupadi had spent no part of her childhood in the wilds. She was unused to life in the forest and hated every moment of it. Bheema was used to the vana. It made no difference to him where he lived, in a city or a jungle, as long as he was with those he loved. But Bheema couldn't bear to see Draupadi miserable and he blamed Yudhishtira for her misery.
It seemed some evil planet ruled Bheema's life and sapped him with sorrow. He neither ate nor slept as he used to. Instead, he barely nibbled at the fine food from the Sun God's platter. He would rise from his bed at all hours of the night and walk out alone under the moon and the stars. Often, he walked right round the lake because he hated to sleep. For in his dreams, he helplessly relived the day of the gambling in Hastinapura.
Perhaps because of his inordinate physical strength, Bheema was not as strong in his mind as his brothers were. He had little control over his thoughts and, asleep or awake, visions of their humiliation tortured him. Most of all, he saw Dusasana endlessly hauling Draupadi through the corridors of the palace in Hastinapura, while she screamed at him to stop. Bheema saw Duryodhana patting his thigh lewdly and calling Panchali to sit in his lap.
Bheema knew that only when he had torn Dusasana's heart out of his chest and smashed Duryodhana's thigh would he find any peace. He grew particularly depressed after what Draupadi said to Krishna. Whenever he saw her, grim and downcast around the asrama or staring blankly at the lake, he would stalk away by himself, gnashing his teeth.
Bheema seldom spoke to any of his brothers these days. Once, he had been the most cheerful of them, full of jokes and pranks; but since his outburst in Hastinapura, he had not exchanged a word with Yudhishtira. Bheema was wasting away and Arjuna often tried to mollify him and explain Yudhishtira's reasons for doing what he had done. But Bheema had no patience for fine logic; and even as Arjuna reasoned with him, Draupadi would come out of her kutila, her face a mask. Bheema would shrug Arjuna off angrily and stalk away by himself.
If Draupadi had wanted, she could have brought Bheema round, by telling him she was content to wait out the thirteen years, as she had done to Krishna. But she was the unhappiest of them all and she did not hesitate to show it.