Draupadi, pouring out her anxious lament before Bhīmasena, sought at once to rouse in him the fire to destroy their foe and to temper that fire with the caution required for the fulfilment of their vow of concealment. Though Bhīma knew all that had happened, he did not know the delicate turmoil of her heart as it swayed between grief and hope, faith and the workings of fate, belief and stark reality.
She said, “Drupada Mahārāja cherished me more dearly than his own daughters. Kuntī held me in regard surpassing all others. My husbands bestowed on me a love and honour unparalleled. The people praised me as a guardian more devoted than parents themselves. I became mother to noble, valiant children whose courage and righteousness illumine the lineage of Bharata.
Kinswomen honoured my fairness and conduct. In the Rājasūya I gave gifts to the Brāhmaṇas and received their heartfelt blessings; their benedictions purified my mind. Queens and noble ladies hailed me as a pious embodiment of virtue, and all this esteem came through the collective affection and regard you all had for me. Yet behold me now, my honour laid aside, serving Sudheṣṇā despite her lowly spirit, and it seems none of you are troubled by it.
What shall I do except call it my misfortune? Once I, the chief queen, was served by all; now, untrained in servitude, I must minister to one whose morals are beneath mine. My mother-in-law never commanded me like a mistress, but instructed me gently as a guide in dignity. She, with subtle wisdom, taught me the worth of the honour given to her, and the humiliation of servitude—truths meant to stir your inner fire towards the destruction of wicked Keechaka. I once prepared sandal paste for Kuntī with devotion; now I grind it for the queen and her retinue, draining half my strength. My palms, once tender, are roughened by the constant grinding of small sandalwood sticks.
Often, I reproach the Creator for granting me such a plight.” Saying this, she wept and laid her head upon Bhīma’s chest. Distressed by her anguish, he held and consoled her, seeking to restore her faith. She pressed on, striving to kindle his anger that her purpose might be fulfilled: “Dharmaraja, caught in deceitful play, gambled us away and cast us into this misery. He is the cause of our downfall. Still, I live by a fragile thread of hope, though betrayed. Surely, I must have wronged someone in a former birth, for peace eludes me.
How shall I endure this sorrow? How bear humiliation from a despicable man while my husband’s yet alive? No one can exceed the limits set by fate; householders must accept both joy and suffering as time ordains. Harishchandra, Nala, and many kings bowed before destiny and endured trials. For your honour and progress, I can bear the harm that befalls me, but this braggart, driven by vile desire, will not stop. He seized me by force, and his memory makes me tremble. O Bhīma, if you do not slay him, I shall end my life before your eyes. Fire, water, rope or poison—one of these shall be the vessel of my release; I swear it.”
Bhīma smiled and said, “O Draupadi, to bring this boaster to his end, you need not sacrifice the merit of your life. While you suffer such outrage, no woman’s dignity is safe. I refrained earlier for reasons that no longer bind me. It shall not be so again. You need not fear even a grain of dust of Kīchaka. Let him be forgotten.” To strengthen her spirit he reminded her, “Sukanya endured hardship for Sage Cyavana; Sita went to the forest with Rāma; Lopāmudrā wandered among mountains with Agastya; Damayanti followed Nala into exile.
They bore sorrow and later found peace and prosperity. You too shall rise from these trials and behold wealth in the years to come. My heart is heavy with grief, sunk in the mire of insult, and I shall not rest until I send Duryodhana, Karna, Śakuni, Duḥśāsana and their wicked allies to their doom. As a sign of their nearing destruction, our year of concealment approaches its end. Eleven months have passed; only one remains. Take courage: though Keechaka still breathes after disgracing you, before another day dawns he shall no longer walk this earth. Lure him to the dance hall and I shall end him before your eyes and restore joy to your heart. This cannot be accomplished by words but only by deed.
It is near dawn; if anyone finds you here, our vow is endangered. Depart and rest upon your cot.” He sent her away and lay down, his mind fixed upon the task awaiting him at daybreak. Thus, they returned unnoticed to their places, each bearing the weight of sorrow yet sustained by hope and faith. In Draupadi’s distressed heart, the lotus of trust slowly blossomed, stirred by the promise of deliverance and the warning it would impart to every lustful mind in the palace.
Darkness yielded to light; bees settled on opening lotuses; blossoms fell from trees and vines; ruddy shelducks rejoiced with the flowers. A gentle breeze soothed troubled minds as men and women rose to their morning rites. The sky cleared, the stars vanished like petals slipped from branches. Birds left their nests seeking their daily fare, chirping in delight as they skimmed buds, lotus stems, silver fish and insects, watched lazily by turtles and pelicans awaiting easy prey.
Tender rays lit the shining waters as though Śiva stood ready for sacred ablution. The reddening lotus, embraced by growing light, glowed as if coveted by celestials yearning to worship it. Night’s fragrance faded; pollen drifted through the air; vines drooped like weary koels after long song. People greeted one another with smiles and folded hands, moving like living lamps adorned by the dawn. Hymns from temples and Vedic chanting rose through the air, mingled with the sanctity of ever-burning sacrificial fires.
In that hour the wicked Keechaka rose, bathed and adorned himself, and half-blind in desire set out towards his sister’s palace. He thought to placate Draupadi with feigned remorse and persuade her that his intentions were born of love. Yet even as his schemes unfolded within his darkened mind, destiny wove another design to free him from the wheel of rebirth. For Draupadi’s impassioned words had driven Bhīma towards an unerring resolve, her caution mingled with grief guiding him to a path that would end their torment and strike down their foe, fulfilling the inscrutable purpose of fate.
