The sons of Kunti, wandering princes who had forsaken the comforts of court, had left Draupadi under the shelter of the hermitage of Trunabindu, where Sage Dhoumya tended her with the gentleness of one who knows the laws of Dharma; the forest itself, populous with ashrams of sages perfected in wisdom, breathed sweet perfumes from its flowering glades and harboured beasts and birds of prey that moved without fear beneath the same boughs.
In that season the king of the Sindhu, famed in war and counsel as Jayādhradha of the Saindhava race, rode forth with shining chariots and a fourfold host to take unto himself the daughter of Salva; his eye, however, was ensnared by the lotus visage of the lady in Kamyakavana, and his heart, inflamed by desire, bade him learn who she might be. To his friend Prince Koṭikāśya, he whispered, ‘Command me to find whether she is a yakṣa or a Gandharva, a nymph or a serpent-maid, for such beauty is not of mortal mold.’
Koṭikāśya, sent forward, beheld her standing with a green branch in her hand, her form gentle as a tender leaf and her brow like a crest of flame; he spoke to her with courtly questions and with the pride of his lineage recited the names and prowess of the kings assembled—Kṣemaṅkara of Trigarta on his golden car, the bold lord of Kalinga, the scion of Ikṣvāku, the steeds bedecked and the twelve vassal-chiefs serving Jayādhradha—yet the woman answered with calm and honour. “Brother,” she said to Koṭikāśya, “I am no forest-wench; I am the daughter of Drupada of Panchala, called Kṛṣṇā, the lawful wife of the five sons of Pāṇḍu.
They have gone upon a hunting-turn: Yudhiṣṭhira eastward, Bhīma southward, Arjuna westward, Nakula and Sahadeva northward. They shall return soon; meanwhile, my stay here is according to custom and righteousness.” Koṭikāśya returned word to Jayādhradha; the king, though warned, hardened his purpose and, scornful of the ties that bind ordinary men, pretended that royal licence allowed him to seek any fair woman whom he might sustain.
Draupadī, affronted, rebuked him with noble scorn, reminding him that to speak to a sister as a suitor is a deed base and contrary to virtue. She invoked the fearful prowess of her husbands: “If you seek to try them, face Yudhiṣṭhira’s steadfastness, Bhīma’s might, Arjuna’s Gandīva, Nakula and Sahadeva’s swift wrath.
To provoke them was to march upon a living tempest.” Jayādhradha laughed and bade her mount his chariot; she refused, and strove to maintain her composure, calling to mind the honour due to her house and the sanctity that shields a woman. Yet the king’s lust would not be stayed; he seized her garment, she shrank and pushed him, he tumbled as a tree torn up by the storm, and then, in the act that stained his crown, bound her and bore her away upon his chariot.
Sage Dhoumya, rushing forward, denounced the sin in terms as stern as Justice herself: such deeds become not kings of a generous line; release this woman, for the sin shall cling to thy name and the princes will strip thee of thy honour. The cry went up through the wood; the wickedness of Jayādhradha had become a flame that must kindle a response.
Thus, was sown the seed of retribution, and the tale closes upon the image of the princes returning with wrath for crown and for chastity alike—how they dealt justice and chastised the transgressor became an admonition heard by all castes and ranks, a clear and terrible lesson that virtue is the true shield of the world and that royal splendour, when divorced from righteousness, invites ruin.
