Queen Sudheshna, bound by her promise to safeguard Sairandri’s honour, strove with all her wisdom to shield both her brother and the modest woman entrusted to her care. When every gentle counsel failed, she turned at last to a softer warning, reminding Keechaka that Sairandri was protected by five mighty Gandharvas who had taken her as their wife, and whose very thought unsettled even her own mind. “Dear brother,” she pleaded, “why torment an innocent woman? Can life prosper when walked through wrongful paths? Work that yields ruin is shunned by the wise, however enticing its surface may appear. Cast away this delusion.”
But Keechaka, inflamed by desire and pride, spurned her advice. “Sister,” he said, “you know well that none beneath the heavens can withstand the strength of my arms. As mountains crumble beneath the thunderbolt, so shall I cast down her so-called protectors. Cease these sermons. Find a way and deliver her to me. Delay no more; the fire of love consumes me. If you truly care for me, stop this reproach and summon her.” With cunning desperation, he fell at her feet, weeping, weaving subtle threats with the helplessness of a child. Sudheshna’s heart, shaken by affection and troubled by the force of his obsession, began to falter. She thought, this man, wilful and unbridled, will go to any extent. Nothing restrains him. Instead of provoking him further, let Sairandri face what destiny ordains. If he must meet the wrath of her unseen husbands, so be it. At least for now, the pressure upon me will cease. Blood ties wrestled against righteousness, and in that struggle the sister yielded.
Lifting her brother from the ground, her eyes brimming, she murmured, “Why grieve so? It may not be impossible to persuade Sairandri. Calm yourself. Return to your chambers; do not wander here. Tonight, I shall send her to your palace on the pretext of fetching wine. Then you may approach her as you wish.” Delighted, Keechaka returned, preparing an array of wines, rich foods, and fragrant delights. He dismissed his servants and sat alone upon a fine throne, sinking into dreams where Sairandri approached him like a vision in a mirror, swan-like in gait, decked in flowers, her fragrance trailing in the air, her imagined embrace suffocating him with yearning. He whispered to himself that if she would merely stand before him his eyes would overflow with nectar; if she smiled, eternity would open; if she spoke, it would be music; if she yielded, life’s purpose would be fulfilled. Lost in unclean fantasies, he awaited her arrival.
Meanwhile, Sudheshna, feigning faintness and thirst, summoned Sairandri. “Child, my lips are parched, my spirit restless. Keechaka has fine wine. Fetch it swiftly.” At this command, Droupadi trembled. Sweat gathered on her brow; her limbs weakened. This queen brings sorrow upon me, she thought. I cannot refuse, yet how shall I walk alone into that man’s dwelling? With a breaking voice, she implored, “Lady, send another. I serve you with honour and shall not accept tasks that stain dignity. I trusted yo,u though my husbands are absent; I came under your protection on the condition that my modesty remain untouched. If you fail in this, blame will fall upon you. It is unworthy to send me to another’s house for such a purpose.”
Though Sudheshna knew her fault, the weight of her brother’s state drove her to persist. “Companion,” she replied, “I crave wine for joy, and I do not wish a low-born servant to fetch it. You exaggerate as though I had harmed your honour. You know my heart; why then deny me? Keechaka is my brother, not a stranger. All speak well of you. From the day you entered my service, I have praised your virtues.” Cloaking her intent in gentle speech, she left Droupadi no path of escape. Seeing persuasion futile, Droupadi said with a wavering mind, “Since you entreat with such affection, I shall go.” Sudheshna, relieved, placed a golden vessel in her hands.
Holding it, Droupadi felt crushed beneath the memory of Keechaka’s words; to step into his house was to walk beneath thunder upon her honour. Tears rose, yet she hid them, steadying herself so none might notice. Her face paled, her steps faltered, her mind swirled with fear, doubt, grief, and pain. Overwhelmed, she prayed silently for deliverance. With devotion, she invoked Vishnu, then bowed to the Sun, crying, “O radiant Lord, I am wife to the Pandavas, and in chastity, my heart holds no other. Protect me from this wicked man.” The Sun heard and sent an unseen spirit to guard her.
Thus fortified, she reached Keechaka’s palace, moving like a timid deer entering the lair of a waiting tiger. Keechaka beheld her and trembled with excitement, adjusting his ornaments, drunk on illusion. “Sairandri,” she said calmly, “the queen desires wine; I am sent for it.” But he, lost in passion, replied, “You quench her thirst; quench mine as well. Is it right to leave me desperate for your glances, your words, your embrace? Treat me as your servant; command me.” Ignoring his indecent pleas, she urged, “Fill the vessel. Delay will anger the queen.”
Instead, he pressed on, offering wealth, jewels, servants, palaces, power—his senses scattered like leaves in a storm. At last, in madness, he seized her. But the spirit sent by the Sun bestowed strength upon her, and she flung him aside and fled. Keechaka pursued, blind with desire, until she ran into the royal court where King Virata sat. Like a mad beast, he followed, and before all, seized her by the hair—but again the unseen guardian hurled him away, leaving him writhing like a serpent robbed of prey.
There in the court stood Bhima, watching in blazing fury as Droupadi was hounded. Sweat streamed from his great form; his eyes burned like erupting fire; his clenched fists longed to shatter mountains. Fate was turning its wheels.
Droupadi, though wounded by Sudheshna’s betrayal, had trusted the queen’s affectionate appeal. Yet at every peril, her prayer guided her steps toward the place where the Pandavas awaited to shape the next movement of destiny.
