In an age when ascetics and hermits gained splendour and renown through the fire of sacrifice and the discipline of ritual, there arose two mighty demons, Sunda and Upasunda, who delighted in breaking the calm of holy men. They came not with sword or spear but in the guises of lion, tiger, elephant and every fierce beast of the wild, striking terror where silence and prayer had reigned. The sages, bound by their own law never to waste the merit of penance upon mere beasts or demons, endured until endurance failed, and at last laid their grief before the Creator himself. Brahma, beholding the insolence of these brothers and recalling the boon once given—that no power in heaven or earth might slay them save their own hands—smiled at the hidden turn of destiny. He resolved that they should perish by the snare of their own hearts, and so he summoned the art of creation to fashion a wonder of womanhood. From the subtlest fragrance of blossoms, from the gleam of moonlight on a still lake, from the music of unseen lutes he shaped Tilottama, a vision of enchantment.
With palms joined she bowed before the Lord of the Four Faces, before the company of sages and the king of the gods, and humbly asked what service she must render. Brahma spake of the two demons who dwelt in the caverns of the Vindhyas, fierce and unyielding, and bade her move among them like living lightning, so that their own desire might set them at strife. She saluted the immortals and set forth upon her silent mission. As she circled the Creator, each of his four faces turned to behold her, and each face uttered its own low murmur of wonder. Indra himself, finding two eyes too scant for such radiance, grew a thousandfold in sight. Even the gods of lofty mind felt their hearts tremble at the sweetness of her beauty. This living flame of allure passed down from the bright courts of heaven into the shadowed forests of the Vindhyas, moving like a shaft of moonlit glory.
There sat the two brothers upon one throne, sharing one plate, drinking from one cup, sleeping on one couch, rivals in no virtue or power, so alike in might and measure that neither outshone the other. Yet when Tilottamā’s grace shone before them, their unity dissolved like frost before the sun. Each, as though drinking with the eyes, was lost in her charm. Swiftly they rose; one seized her left hand, the other her right, each proclaiming, “Mine is this wife.” She, remembering the purpose of her birth, answered with playful sweetness that she would wed the one who proved himself the stronger. At once, casting aside brotherly affection and the years of indivisible fellowship, they closed in combat as though two mountains clashed. Fists thundered like falling boulders, the earth quaked beneath their trampling feet, and trees and stones were shattered to dust. With neither thought nor speech for aught but the single desire of conquest, they struck until both lay lifeless upon the torn and trembling ground.
Then the sage Nārada, witness to this ruin, uttered his grave counsel: even the steadfast are driven to enmity when woman’s charm becomes the spark; for beauty, like a hidden flame, can kindle strife and turn hearts from wisdom. He warned the sons of Pandu that invisible discord may creep where love and honour dwell. The brothers, noble among kings, received the admonition with bowed heads and set for themselves a rule: Draupadī should dwell for a year in each brother’s house in turn; during that time none other might cross her threshold, and if any violated the pact he must depart for a year’s pilgrimage and perform rites of atonement. They swore this vow in Narada’s presence. Thus, the sage—often deemed a mischief-maker—proved himself in truth a guardian of harmony, for by his counsel the Pandavas kept their brotherhood unbroken and their strength united.
Peace reigned in their house until one day Arjuna heard the anguished cry of a brahmin. The holy man lamented that thieves had stolen his sacred cow and that the calf wept unceasingly for its mother. “O Arjuna,” said he, “men praise you for valour. Slay these robbers that none may dare such crime again, and restore my cow unharmed.” Arjuna was torn, for his bow and arrows lay in the chamber where Yudhishthira and Draupadi were together; to enter was to break the vow. Yet to refuse the cry of the helpless would be to fail in a warrior’s sacred duty. Weighing the twin sins—breach of oath or neglect of dharma—he chose the higher right. He entered the forbidden place, took his weapons, smote the thieves and brought back the cow. Then, with folded hands, he stood before his elder and confessed: “I have broken the precept we swore. You, who guard the law of our kingdom, must judge me. Permit me to perform the twelve-month penance.” So, Arjuna went forth on pilgrimage, fulfilling the rite of expiation.
Thus, from the cunning of Tilottama to the self-chosen exile of Arjuna runs one thread of wisdom: that desire may sunder the closest bonds, yet discipline and the courage to uphold duty—even at cost of personal pain—secure the strength and harmony of men and kingdoms alike.
