The great sage Vedavyasa, like the rising sun that scatters night’s deep gloom, dispelled the darkness of King Drupada’s doubts and gladdened his heart, for the monarch now stood eager to celebrate the wedding of his daughter Draupadi with the sons of Pandu. Approaching Kunti and the eldest of her sons, Vedavyasa spoke with quiet authority: “This is a day of rare sanctity. The moon abides in Rohini. Perform the marriage of Draupadi with all the rites in their proper order.”
King Drupada, joyful and resolute, caused the eight quarters of the city to be adorned with fresh mango bowers and garlands of fragrant blossoms. The avenues leading to the marriage hall were washed with waters scented by turmeric, musk, and sandal; the ground was strewn with patterns of coloured powders—vermillion, turmeric yellow, crushed flowers, and powdered stone—sparkling with inlaid pearls, corals and many-hued gems. From every direction came kings and vassal princes, chiefs of tribes and learned sages, dancers and minstrels; the air resounded with the pleasant music of faith as processions of horses, elephants, chariots, and bullock carts rolled towards the splendid pavilion.
The dais itself shone like a fragment of heaven: silken draperies of many colours hung in graceful folds, delicate curtains of gauze trembled in the scented breeze, and garlands of pearls and corals mingled with strands of gold and silver. Pillars were wrapped in cloth bordered with gems, golden urns filled with sacred turmeric-rice stood beside areca palms and twining betel creepers, and vessels of the holy rivers’ water rested among blades of sacred grass. Into this consecrated place the Pandavas’ priest Dhaumya entered with a company of Brahmins, chanting Vedic hymns, and the sons of Pandu, radiant as celestial beings, came in their train.
Then Draupadi, the gentle yet resplendent maiden famed for humility and kindness, was led forth by women in spotless attire who sang blessings as they moved. Bearing tender coconut, betel leaves, and sandalwood in her hands, she ascended the dais and took her seat. The priests invoked the gods with measured rites; Vedic chants mingled with sweet music and the hush of reverent hearts, until the place seemed a world of peace and holy delight. In due order, Yudhishthira first, then each of his brothers, wedded Draupadi according to the eternal law, missing not a single rite ordained by the Creator. The heavens rejoiced: celestial drums rolled, flowers rained from the sky, and nature herself grew still in unspoken joy.
When the ceremonies were complete, the sage Ugrashravas later told Shaunaka and the gathered sages how King Drupada honoured each of the Pandavas with rich gifts—garments and jewels, elephants and horses, chariots, herds of cows and a retinue of skilled attendants. Draupadi, steadfast in patience and equal in affection to all her husbands, gave no cause for disappointment. Kunti blessed her new daughter-in-law: “As Vishnu is with Lakshmi, as the Moon with Rohini, as Indra with Sachi, as Vasistha with Arundhati, so may you stand beside your husbands. Bear noble children; be ever gracious to scholars, elders, kin, the sick and the guest; never deny food to the hungry. Let your kindness embrace not only men but beasts and trees. Your lords shall conquer the earth and perform the Aswamedha and the Rajasuya with you as their chief queen. O lotus-eyed Draupadi, fortunate am I to call you daughter, even as you shall one day rejoice in sons and daughters-in-law and flourish in unending fame and prosperity.”
News of the wedding reached Krishna, who sent costly gifts of jewels, garments and ornaments in honour of his kinsmen. The strength and valour of the Pandavas, now bound in alliance with Drupada, fortified the Panchala kingdom and drew to it the loyalty of many vassal kings. They dwelt there for a year amid the splendour of gods and mighty elders.
But far away in Hastinapura, Duryodhana’s spies brought alarming tidings: the archer who struck the revolving target and humbled Karna was none other than Arjuna; the mighty warrior who cast down Shalya was Bhima; and those barred from the arena in the tumult of the Swayamvara were Nakula and Sahadeva. Duryodhana turned pale, grieving the death of his agent Purochana in the burning house of lac and sensing that fate had foiled his designs. “If the gods do not favour our labour, human effort is vain,” he said. “The Pandavas are the true children of fortune.”
He summoned his council of malice and plotted anew. “The Yadavas, the Vrishnis, the Bhojas—these elders will favour the sons of Pandu; Sisupala of Chedi will stand beside them. We must sow division before they unite and threaten Hastinapura. We must isolate them from the other kingdoms, rouse enmity and opposition.” Vidura soon informed King Dhritarashtra of the Pandavas’ marriage, their triumph over Karna and Shalya, and their secure dwelling in Panchala. The blind monarch mused darkly: “The maiden born of sacrificial flame has become their wife; their power grows and their circle of allies swells. Should Krishna and Balarama, the Yadus, the Vrishnis and the Andhakas join them, Hastinapura will be laid low. We must act without delay. Either we breed discord between the Pandavas and Drupada, or we set the sons of Kunti against the sons of Madri. Send subtle agents into Drupada’s realm; entice the Pandavas with women who may stir Draupadi’s jealousy; disturb her mind and make her the instrument of strife. By craft and deceit Bhima can be destroyed, Karna will slay Arjuna, and the rest may then be overcome.”
Thus Dhritarashtra’s mind, veiled in kinship yet sharpened by fear and envy, revealed itself—planning ruin with the cold precision of a statesman whose love of power had smothered every bond of blood.
