The wicked son of the blind monarch, Duryodhana, wasted no time in devising a scheme to visit Dwaitavana under the pretext of protecting the cowherds. Yet his true intent was malicious—to wound the confidence of the Pandavas and mock their life of hardship. He and his accomplices, Karna and Shakuni, were well aware that the Pandavas, bound by their vow of restraint, would not retaliate, and thus hoped to strip them of their dignity through ridicule. The old king, Dhritarashtra, though blind in sight, could dimly perceive the shadow of this plot. In the council of Kuru elders he masked his anxiety, but his heart trembled with foreboding. He feared that the arrogance of his son might provoke Bhima and bring ruin upon them all. Troubled by visions of calamity, he urged caution, though his counsel fell upon deaf ears.
With pomp befitting a royal conquest, Duryodhana proclaimed his march to the forest. The enterprise, clothed in the noble guise of a pastoral duty, was in truth a parade of vengeance, vanity, and envy—a pageant meant to glorify his power before men. Decked in robes of rich dye and embroidered splendour, jewels glittering from crown to anklet, he sought to appear almost divine. His brothers followed in similar display; Karna and Shakuni accompanied him with their wives, queens, and a fourfold army. The road trembled beneath the movement of elephants, chariots, horses, and palanquins—a monstrous procession of pride.
The scale of his ostentation was staggering: a thousand chariots, thirty thousand elephants, ninety thousand horses, and a hundred thousand foot soldiers. Hunters, dancers, jesters, and singers joined the march, turning a simple journey into a spectacle of arrogance. They passed through forests and hills until they reached the meadows where the herds grazed. The cows moved in shining clusters—some white as jasmine heaps, others like conches or garlands of moonstones, some resembling pearls, frost, or foaming surf. To Duryodhana’s eye, they gleamed like gems scattered on green velvet. Pleased by their abundance and health, he commended the herdsmen and rewarded them with gifts. Bulls, calves, and oxen were paraded before him, and he bestowed honours and charities as though he were lord of all the earth.
He then amused himself with the entertainers, showering them with riches, and turned to hunting. The forests rang with his chase—deer fled in terror, wild boars fell beneath his shafts, and elephants were captured. In his pride, he roamed through groves heavy with fruit, bathed in lotus-laden lakes, and delighted in the song of koels and the chatter of parrots, imagining nature herself saluting his grandeur. Thus, amid laughter and vanity, he approached the lake of Dwaitavana, where the Pandavas dwelt. From afar he saw Yudhishthira engaged in a sacred rite, the “Sadyaskanda,” surrounded by sages. Duryodhana, desiring to display his own glory nearby, ordered his tents to be raised around the lake.
But the guardians of that place, the Gandharvas of King Chitraratha, forbade his encroachment. “This lake is sacred to our lord,” they warned. “Withdraw and seek another shore.” Their words were reported to Duryodhana, whose pride flared. He sent soldiers to drive the Gandharvas away, saying, “The son of Dhritarashtra commands you—depart, for the monarch comes to sport in these waters.” The Gandharvas laughed. “Your king knows neither his strength nor ours,” they said. “If he persists, he will lose not only honour but life. Let him be guided by wisdom, not arrogance.”
Their defiance enraged Duryodhana. “Let the army advance!” he cried. “Crush them, even if gods come to aid them!” The fourfold Kaurava host thundered forward, roaring like lions, their clamour shaking the woods. The Gandharvas spoke gently still: “We have no quarrel with you—why provoke needless blood?” But the Kauravas, mistaking restraint for weakness, rained arrows upon them. When King Chitraratha heard of this assault, anger blazed within him. He unleashed his celestial warriors—giants of terrible form, armed with swords, maces, axes, and radiant bows. The heavens darkened with their weapons, and the earth shook beneath their tread.
Battle raged fiercely. Dussasana and his brothers faltered; only Karna stood his ground, scattering Gandharvas with his skill. Yet the tide swelled against him—the Gandharvas surged like waves of the sea. Duryodhana and Shakuni joined the fray, but Chitraratha himself descended, wrathful as a storm. His divine arrows veiled the sky, shutting out air and light. Chariots splintered, elephants fell, and the Kaurava host was broken. Hemmed in on all sides, they gasped for breath and fled in confusion.
Karna’s chariot was shattered, and he mounted that of Vikarna. Duryodhana fought on until Chitraratha, seeing enough blood spilt, struck his chariot down, seized him by the hair, bound his hands, and cast him upon the ground. The Gandharvas captured his brothers and women, taking them prisoners. The humbled Kaurava soldiers fled to the Pandavas for refuge.
They bowed before Yudhishthira, saying, “O lord of righteousness, your cousins are in bondage. The Gandharva king has taken Duryodhana, his brothers, and their women captive. Show mercy—save them, and protect the honour of our house.”
Thus did fate turn its wheel. The proud who had sought to humiliate the exiled sons of virtue now lay humiliated themselves—a fitting reply of heaven to the arrogance of men. What followed would reveal the deeper justice of destiny.
