Vidura, still cherishing a faint hope that heaven itself might intervene to shield Draupadi and the sons of Pandu from a humiliation beyond all precedent, continued his grave discourse on justice. He recalled an ancient tale: in a former age, Virochana, son of the pious Prahlada, and Sudhanva, son of the Brahmin Angirasa, sought the hand of the same maiden and contended for the palm of superior virtue. Unable to settle their rivalry, they staked their lives upon the issue and came before Prahlada’s court. Sudhanva said, “You are a knower of righteousness; pronounce who among us stands higher in conduct. But beware—should you favour your son unjustly, the thunderbolt of Indra will strike you down.” Prahlada, fearful of the subtle duties of judgment, turned to the sage Kasyapa and laid the matter before him.
Kasyapa replied, “The judge must regard witness and virtue alone. If he betrays justice and stoops to low partiality, Varuna’s bonds will hold him fast, and the sin will bear its fruit for many lives. If Dharma itself, offended, comes seeking redress and the court fails in its charge, all present are branded teachers of unrighteousness. Passion and anger must be put aside; if any man, seeing wrong, does not restrain it, a fourth part of the sin is his, the king bears another part, and the remainder clings to the perpetrators. Therefore, it is the solemn duty of the court to speak judgment without fear.”
Thus admonished, Prahlada declared Sudhanva the nobler in virtue than his own son. Sudhanva praised him for his steadfastness in justice, for he had not bent the scales towards his child. So too, said Vidura, must Draupadi’s plea be answered, without tilting the balance of right.
Yet in the Kuru assembly, no one dared to break the silence. Overawed by Duryodhana’s wrath, they sat mute while Draupadi, voice ringing like a flame, reproached them: “On the day of my swayamvara, I shone like a living fire and won the applause of kings; I became the bride of the Pandavas and sister to Krishna. And now, before these very eyes, Dussasana drags me to shame. Why is there no answer? Am I a bondwoman or free? Declare it, that I may know and abide.”
Bhishma at last spoke: “O noble lady, only Yudhishthira can resolve your doubt. The subtle ways of virtue are hidden from all but the purest. The fruit of this sin will fall upon those who abuse the house of Kuru.”
Then the cruel-tongued Karna mocked her: “A woman of five husbands should content herself with one. Choose the gambler who cannot be defeated.” His words, a base hint that she should yield to Duryodhana, stung like poison. The heir of Dhritarashtra, mean and vulgar, struck his thigh and with a lewd gesture beckoned her to sit upon it.
Fury blazed in Bhima. “By this pride of power, Duryodhana has dared to call Draupadi to his thigh. By my mace, I swear I shall shatter those thighs!” He strode toward his weapons, but Bhishma, Vidura, and Drona restrained him: “This is not the hour to lose thy wrath.”
Even as they spoke, dire omens shook the palace of the Kurus. The sacrificial fire in the pit felt low; the women of the Kauravas were weighed with grief; the resting-places of their warriors echoed with the hooting of owls. Kripa, Vidura, Bhishma, and Drona read these signs as heralds of doom for Dhritarashtra’s sons.
Gandhari, perceiving the evil turn of fate, went with Vidura to her lord and told him of the Pandavas’ defeat and of the portents seen by all. The blind king summoned Duryodhana and rebuked him: “Draupadi, born of sacred fire, chaste and virtuous, deserves no insult. Thou hast spoken words no man should utter. From thy childhood thy conduct has been perverse; thou hast brought sorrow on the Pandavas and their kin. Cast away thy wrath.” Then turning to Draupadi, he said: “O moon-complexioned lady, divine among my daughters-in-law, ask a boon of me and it shall be granted.”
Draupadi answered: “O King, if thy kindness will bestow a favour, release Yudhishthira from servitude. So shall my son Prativindhya be free from the stain of being the child of a slave.” Struck by her noble thought for the honour of generations unborn, Dhritarashtra granted the boon and bade her name another. She said, “Release also his four brothers with their weapons.” He granted this too and urged her to ask a third. Draupadi replied, “A Vaisya woman may ask one boon, a Kshatriya woman two, and other women three; but a Brahmin woman may crave a hundred. I have no right to ask more.”
Pleased with her restraint, Dhritarashtra called Yudhishthira and his brothers and said: “Take back your wealth; return to Indraprastha and rule as before. My son has wronged you through folly. Forget this insult. True greatness remembers not enmity; it gathers what is good and casts aside the evil. Behold my age and your mother, Gandhari; harbour no rancour against Duryodhana. Vidura, born of Dharma, will guide our house with wise counsel. You, light of the Kuru race, shall preserve our lineage through the storms of time.”
Thus, the grief-stricken king restored their kingdom and placed it in Yudhishthira’s hands. By her steadfastness in duty and her finely balanced sense of honour, Draupadi won the favour of Gandhari and Dhritarashtra, and quenched, for a moment, the blazing wrath that threatened to consume both houses. She had drawn forth the bravest of the Kurus from the very ocean of peril. Yet though the king’s prudent act seemed to save the lineage, the hearts of Duryodhana, of the cunning Shakuni, of the venomous Karna, and of the brutal Dussasana were not so easily bent. The hunger for evil still smouldered. One firm command from Dhritarashtra might have preserved the honour of the Kuru throne; but ever as a father, not as a king, he faltered. He punished greed after it had flowered, but never forestalled it. How Time, the eternal corrector, would mete out its own stern justice was yet to be seen.
