Duryodhana, to cloak his sinister design with an air of innocence, set his plan in motion with great cunning. He summoned a few counsellors of polished speech and respectable bearing, entrusting them with the task of praising the marvels of Varanavata. With persuasive eloquence they extolled its beauty before the people, never hinting at the treachery that lay beneath.
They spoke of its orchards bending under the weight of ripe fruits, of creepers adorned more with blossoms than with leaves, of the fragrance that perfumed the very air. They told of forests teeming with game, of roaring waterfalls and tranquil lotus-filled lakes, of rivers flowing in gentle grace, and of sights that ensnared the heart with their charm. They painted nights lit by white flowers, as though a new heaven had descended to earth, while palaces studded with marble gleamed like reservoirs of moonlight.
Trade centers shimmered with jewels, their beams of colour stretching skyward in dazzling umbrellas. The citizens, they said, were strong, pious, cultured, and noble; the holy shrines were sanctified by the presence of the gods themselves; and any who entered this sacred land would leave with peace and satisfaction in their souls.
Such praise soon settled in the minds of the Pandavas, and the desire to see the place arose within them. Dritharashtra, swayed entirely by Duryodhana’s crafty counsel, summoned the sons of Pandu. With tears, he feigned paternal affection: “O children! You who carry the fame of Pandu, you must seek relief from the burden of courtly duty. Go to Varanavata, the abode of Shiva, where sport and pilgrimage may bring you joy. Take with you your mother Kunti, your counselors, wealth, and provisions.
Offer gifts of gold, land, and cattle to the Brahmins, so that the spirit of your father Pandu may be appeased.” The Pandavas, unaware of the hidden snare, accepted his words with gratitude. Seeking the blessings of Gandhari and the elders, they were honoured by Duryodhana and his brothers with ornaments and garments, while Brahmins intoned blessings for their safe return.
Duryodhana, exultant that his scheme was taking form, turned to Purochana, his trusted agent, and whispered the darker part of the plot. “Build for them a dwelling at Varanavata,” he commanded, “a palace fair to the eye, yet treacherous in substance. Use wax, oil, and ghee; smear its walls with beauty and whitewash, but let it be tinder for fire. Stay with them, win their trust, and at the right moment set the blaze. Let none survive—even if others perish along with them. My ascent to the throne depends on this, and your reward shall be boundless comfort and wealth.” Purochana obeyed, hastening to Varanavata and beginning the construction of that fatal house.
Meanwhile, the Pandavas—Dharmaja, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva—still in their tender youth, departed from Hastinapura by royal order. Their chariots and steeds bore them forth, escorted by the blessings of Brahmins and scholars, though whispers rose among the people: “Why does the king act against dharma? Why is Bhishma silent? Should not the eldest son inherit?” Many wished to follow the Pandavas into exile, but Yudhishthira restrained them with gentle counsel. “It is not meet to disobey the king’s command. Loyalty to the throne is the code of the people. Stay in Hastinapura and live in peace. We shall return in due time.”
Among the well-wishers was Vidura, who walked with them a short distance. Speaking in veiled words understood only by Yudhishthira, he warned them of hidden danger. “Guard against poison, guard against fire,” he hinted, knowing too well the malice of Duryodhana. Later, Kunti inquired of Yudhishthira the meaning of Vidura’s cryptic words. Smiling gravely, he said, “It is a warning for our safety. We must remain vigilant, for though the king’s gesture seems kind, it is laced with peril.”
Thus forewarned, the Pandavas arrived at Varanavata. Their entry was celebrated with pomp: garlands, chants, music, and auspicious signs. They were led to their splendid new residence—the lacquer palace. At first glance it dazzled with beauty, yet Yudhishthira discerned its treacherous nature: the oily smell, the waxen walls, the nearness to the arsenal. He whispered to Bhima, “This house is built for our destruction. Vidura’s counsel was true. We must stay vigilant.” Bhima urged escape, but Yudhishthira restrained him. “If we flee, the conspiracy will be exposed, and the Kuru realm will fall into turmoil. If we endure, we may yet thwart them without blame.”
In secret, Vidura sent a trusted tunnel-digger to aid them. A passage was carved beneath the house, and the Pandavas, while feigning innocence, lived cautiously, giving alms and winning the hearts of the townsfolk. Six months passed. Then came the destined night. Purochana had planned to ignite the palace, but Bhima, foreseeing the peril, acted first. On the appointed night, when Purochana lay deep in drunken sleep and the tribal woman with her sons slumbered within the compound, Bhima set fire to his chamber. Flames leapt swiftly, devouring the lacquer palace. Lifting his mother and brothers upon his mighty shoulders, Bhima led them into the tunnel and out to safety, as Vidura had foreseen.
The house of wax blazed like a funeral pyre, and with it perished Purochana and the unwitting victims of his plot. To the world it seemed that the Pandavas had been consumed in the fire, while in truth, they passed into safety. Thus ended the first great conspiracy of the Kauravas, swallowed by the very fire they had kindled.
