When Saunaka and the sages of Naimisharanya enquired of Souti regarding the exile of the sons of Pandu, the narrator spoke in sober cadence. He told how, having lost all in the cruel game of dice, the Pandavas turned their steps southward into the forest, accompanied by Indrasena and other faithful attendants. Subhadra, the young Abhimanyu, and the tender sons of Draupadi followed them—Prativindhya, born of Dharmaja; Srutasoma, son of Bhima; Srutakirti, the child of Arjuna; Sathanika, born of Nakula; and Srutasena, son of Sahadeva. Thus, the Pandavas went forth, surrounded by their offspring and kinsfolk, their faces clouded by sorrow.
When the citizens beheld their beloved rulers departing, grief burst from every breast. Tears streamed, and voices rose in lament: “Behold the lords of justice, who governed with equity, deceived by Sakuni in the play of dice, despoiled of their wealth by Duryodhana, and thrust into the wilderness by the blind king Dhritarashtra! Though Dharmaja and Sakuni cast the dice, the responsibility rests upon the king, for it is the ruler’s charge to restrain wrong within his court. A sovereign who fails in this duty bears the blame of history, and Dhritarashtra’s burden is heaviest of all. Such is the hidden law of sin—that not only the guilty, but the entire assembly of counsellors becomes accountable in the eyes of the people.”
The citizens spoke freely of those who should have checked the cruelty: Bhishma, jewel of the Kurus; Dronacharya, master of arms; Kripacharya, embodiment of morality; and Vidura, the blazing spirit of righteousness. “Why,” they asked, “did these elders remain silent while the sons of Dhritarashtra disgraced the moonlike Kauravas? Under the rule of the miserly Duryodhana, with the deceitful Sakuni and the fiery Karna as his allies, how shall we remain safe? If cousins are robbed without shame, what protection have we, the common folk? Where shall dharma dwell upon earth? Better let us follow the sons of Pandu, for in their company we may live amidst sacred rites, Vedic chants, and noble culture.”
Thus, they besought the exiled princes: “O sons of Pandu, do not abandon us here. The corruption of our rulers shall one day fall upon us. Permit us to dwell with you, that we may at least preserve our traditions in your company.” But Yudhishthira, ever cautious, feared that their following might be misinterpreted as rebellion and used as fuel for malicious rumours. With folded hands, he replied, “You honour us with virtues we do not deserve. Yet life in the forest is full of hardship—roots, fruits, serpents, and wild beasts. Return, therefore, to your homes and endure not the rigours of exile.” His gentle words, though wrapped in courtesy, compelled the citizens to retrace their steps to Hastinapura.
Journeying along the banks of the sacred Ganga, the Pandavas halted beneath a mighty banyan tree known as Pramana. There they spent a night amidst a sanctified atmosphere, where dawn arose to the sound of Vedic hymns. Rishis devoted to perpetual fire-rituals, pure in spirit and intent on universal welfare, approached with their families and disciples. They too expressed their wish to accompany the exiles into the forest. Yudhishthira bowed low and spoke humbly: “We have lost our kingdom and shall live on roots and fruits. Why should you abandon your homes and bear needless hardship? Tigers, lions, serpents, and elephants roam the woods; forest life is no place for you.”
But the sages persisted: “It is not comfort we seek, but the preservation of sacred rites. Under the unrighteous sons of Dhritarashtra, our rituals cannot thrive. If rulers despise dharma, tradition itself perishes. Reject us not, O king, for one who seeks refuge must not be turned away. We shall gather forest produce and sustain ourselves, dedicating all to our holy duties. Better to endure the wilderness with the righteous than remain under wicked kings who betray their kin.”
Hearing this, Yudhishthira pondered deeply. He realized their presence would infuse the forest with purity and spiritual strength. Yet a doubt lingered: accustomed as they were to wholesome meals, how would these ascetics fare in the wilderness? This anxiety so troubled his mind that he swooned. Then the great Rishi Saunaka, perceiving his unspoken concern, sprinkled consecrated water upon him and spoke words of wisdom:
“Grief and fear may assail men, but the wise do not let them overpower the mind. The body may be subject to sickness, fatigue, and separation from what is dear, but the tranquil soul remains unshaken. Knowledge quenches sorrow as water quenches fire. Attachment breeds grief; grief leads to weakness; weakness to ruin. Therefore, cast away attachment to kin, wealth, and transient pleasures. Beauty, youth, riches, and power are fleeting shadows. Wealth, especially, is a snare: its gaining brings toil, it keeping breeds fear, its spending causes regret. Men burn with desire like trees afire from within, consumed by greed. Wealth lures thieves, kings, fire, and kin alike; it multiplies anxieties and ends in despair. The unjust pursuit of riches yields pride, fear, and misery. O Dharmaja, covet not false wealth. Only that which is earned in righteousness is a lasting treasure.”
Thus did the sage unfold before Yudhishthira the philosophy of detachment. He warned him that passion for wealth, power, or revenge may lead to downfall, but patience and balance of mind are the true refuge. Yudhishthira, unshaken by worldly illusions, accepted the counsel, knowing that time itself may heal the errors of the Kauravas. For him, the thirteen years of exile were but a number, an appointed span within which fate might turn. He neither feared the forest nor lamented the loss of empire, but brooded only on the whisper of destiny that threatened the destruction of multitudes.
The dialogue between the Brahmarshi and Yudhishthira thus stands as a timeless discourse on wealth and its burdens, on desire and its perils, and on the balance of mind that alone can withstand the storm of fate—a lesson not for one age alone, but for all generations.
