The warrior-soul in Bhīma lay restless, for he foresaw strange turns in the palace once the fate of the proud tyrant had reached his kin. Every whisper of wind, every tremor beneath the eaves, he weighed with vigilance. Then came the cry of Sairandhrī—thin, distressed, unmistakably echoing the desperation of the fallen chieftain’s brethren. “What a dire hour,” he thought, “and how perilous the need to shield our hidden names.” Burning with wrath, he scaled the boundary unseen, slipping toward the place where the dead oppressor’s body was borne. Swiftly, he hastened to the burial ground, wrenched a great tree from the earth, set it upon his shoulder, and advanced with the mien of doom—brows knotted in fury, eyes aflame, sinews rising like coiled serpents, sweat gathering upon his brow. The slain man’s brothers, beholding his colossal form, froze in terror. Convinced that spirits of the wild had surrounded them, they scattered in panic—some plunging into thickets, some scrambling upon trees, some hiding in water. And because fear multiplies forms, Bhīma seemed to them as many, not one. They abandoned the corpse at once and fled shrieking toward the royal quarters. Bhīma pursued them with the swiftness of a storm and crushed them as one crushes soft clay beneath heavy hands. When the last of that savage brood had fallen, he cooled his breath, untied the ropes that bound Draupadi, and bade her return quietly to Queen Sudeshna’s chambers, while he himself slipped back to the kitchen like a shadow returning to its place.
Meanwhile, King Virāṭa, believing that celestial guardians had slain those violent men, sought to console his queen. “Moon-faced lady,” he said gently, “on some graceful pretext send Sairandhrī away. Speak my words in your own manner. I dread approaching her, for every man who has neared her has met his ruin. You women know how to convey difficult matters with subtlety; let that be the path.” His thought, though veiled, was full of caution. He wished the queen to understand that no man should approach the enchantress, not in anger nor curiosity. And yet he hinted that she must send word to the maiden without haste or disorder, guiding the queen by degrees. “She is like a lotus in bloom,” he continued, “beautiful, and stirring desire in the hearts of men. And if the god of longing happens to cast his spell, even the virtuous may be destroyed by the wrath of the unseen guardians.” In saying so he soothed the queen, shifting blame from her brother to the sway of beauty and the caprice of passion—an artful speech crafted to ease her wounded pride.
When the sun arose, its early radiance opened the lotuses as though they smiled in greeting. Before presenting herself, Draupadi performed a cleansing rite, for she had touched a corpse. Freed from fear by the tyrant’s death, her mind shone serene; she walked slowly along the king’s way. The townsfolk beheld her with mingled awe and dread. Whispering among themselves, they said, “She is the doom of that proud clan. Do not gaze upon her; misfortune will scorch whoever meets her eyes.” Some crouched behind pillars to watch her, others fled as though fleeing an apparition. Those who came inadvertently near drew back hastily with folded hands, calling her a spirit-woman and clutching their hearts. Like timid deer scattering before a tiger, the people’s folly brought an involuntary smile to her lips. With calm and stately bearing she entered the palace. Near the kitchen, she glimpsed Bhīma, yet without raising her eyes she murmured words meant for his ear: “My celestial lord has delivered me from peril; to him am I bound in eternal devotion.” Bhīma answered in guarded speech, “When danger threatens the wife, how can the husband remain still? Courage is the bond between them.” Thus, they exchanged veiled greetings, and Sairandhrī made her way to the dancing halls.
Her purpose was to behold the king’s daughter—and thereby glance upon Arjuna. The maidens entered with him, and they exclaimed, “Dear one, you have returned unharmed by that wicked tribe. Their cruelty has surely brought them to the threshold of death. Your noble husbands acted swiftly and saved you; the villains have met the fate they deserved.” They sought to console her, and then Bruhannalā spoke gently: “Tell me, if you will, the tale of their misdeeds and their end.” Sairandhrī replied with measured grace, “Being occupied with the teaching of dance, you are spared the knowledge of my suffering. Smiling sweetly, you inquire, yet you know little of my burden. And alas, the mighty Arjuna—by a strange curse—dwells among maidens, while the other Pandavas retain their full strength and power. Bound by this spell, he can do nothing, though his heart is weighed with sorrow.”
Stung by her words, Bruhannalā answered with a trembling voice, “Lotus-eyed lady, I know well your grief and the torment you bear. My own anger is futile; this life brings me shame, and I have none with whom to share its pain. Think not that I lack concern for you. I feel your sorrow, though I cannot show it.” The maidens, unaware of her deeper meaning, believed she lamented the deaths as a delicate soul might.
Draupadi, smiling with playful sting, said in Bruhannalā’s presence, “I know you. I know your heart. Preserve your dignity among these women, for such is fitting.” Thus, she gently turned aside Arjuna’s unspoken questions. She had come in the company of the royal maidens so the queen might not speak harshly to her. In their company, she would have protection, should the queen attempt deceit. For she sensed the queen’s guilt and feared that speaking openly of the night’s events would rouse emotions too strong to conceal—emotions that might betray their identities. So, controlling herself, she entered the queen’s private chambers with her escort.
There Queen Sudeshna, stricken by the loss of her brothers, greeted her with humble fear and made her sit beside her. “Sairandhrī,” she said, “your beauty is perilous. Men are frail before desire. The king has pondered deeply and begs you, with folded hands, to depart wherever you choose. You possess noble husbands, and yet men fall around you as though marked for death. Fear grips them even at your shadow. Go where you will, for our safety and yours.” Sairandhrī, perceiving that each event brought with it fresh danger for their concealed lives, prepared her mind to speak with deft wisdom, for the art of guiding such perilous matters rested in her unmatched skill.
