The braggart Keechaka, shaken by the turmoil born of craving, moved between desire and dread, between lust and shame, between the hope of fulfilment and the fear of failure. Anxiously, he sought to bind his longing with the fear that Sairandhri might escape to the place she had hinted at, yet he remained utterly unaware of the world around him. The maidservants urged him to bathe and take food, but he wandered on, expecting that a stroll through the royal gardens might ease the fever of his passion.
Before the lotus-strewn pond, he paused, breathing the cool air, yet no relief touched his heart. He drifted deeper into the grove of mango trees and seated himself beneath their familiar shade, watching tender shoots and new buds, listening to the languid notes of the cuckoo, the hum of bees lost in lotus cups, and the patient pelican poised upon one leg until its prey came within reach. These sights soothed him for a moment, teaching him that waiting in stillness was better than being consumed by restless thought, and this gave him a brief and fragile peace.
Yet his agitation returned. He hurried into thickets only to rush out again, fearful that drifting pollen might cling to him and dull the scented unguents he had applied for his planned assignation. Passing flowering branches, he dreaded that a drop of honey might fall upon him and overshadow the perfumes on his body. Unable either to stand or sit, he moved constantly, watching the bumblebee offer nectar to its tiny consort and the two dance together in the air; watching the swans circle and display for their mates; watching the parrots share fruit-juice from one curved beak to another without letting a single drop fall.
Even in his distress he praised their harmony. The cuckoos flew in flocks, the males brushing against the females, and Keechaka, observing these delicate scenes, felt desire surge again. His steps faltered, then steadied. The cool breeze seemed hot to him, driving him into the shade, which in turn troubled him so that he stepped back into the sun. He worried, then rejoiced, then stared blankly into space. He sat, lay on the grass, sprang up again, fearing dust would cling to his skin, stretched, bent, and could not remain still.
With a mind tossed by hesitation, spoiled memories, and imagined calamities, he felt himself flung from one extremity to another. His only conscious restraint was his effort not to be seen by anyone. Desire gnawed at him, shaking his thoughts; heat rose in his limbs; confidence drained away. He slipped into a bower of flowers and sat upon a cool marble seat, where delusion overtook him. He saw Sairandhri approaching with the grace of dance, felt in fancy her tender leaf-like hand clasped in his hardened palm, imagined embracing her, arranging her hair, tracing her brow, lifting her veil.
Though she might resist at first, he told himself he would conquer her with brute vitality and obscure enchantments. His craving maddened him. He glared upward and muttered why the stubborn sun refused to sink, why it lingered as though intent on thwarting him. Was the creator turning night into day? Why did the hours lengthen only for him? He pleaded mutely with the sun to hasten its descent. Lying on a couch of moon-stone, sighing again and again, he watched the sky grow no darker, and with each moment his agitation swelled until no remedy or thought could quiet it.
Mind, senses, and confidence collapsed; he knew neither rest nor control as he ran behind his own galloping desires and wearied himself. Startled without cause, filled with dread, his face pale, his body trembling, he at last saw the sun sink in the west. Strength returned, joy surged, and as the lotus buds folded happily with the coming night, stars emerged one by one. The Love-God, with his glittering arrows, roamed in search of places where ruddy shelducks nested. The earth glowed with lamps of many hues as the bustle of the streets slowly faded. The Love-God bewildered his devotees, and the moon toyed with drifting veils of light and shadow until darkness broadened and made all things equal—hill and hollow, rough path and smooth—each indistinguishable from the other.
At that hour, Draupadi informed Bhima that the time to go to the Nartanasala had arrived. Bhima, tying a turban and walking ahead, asked her to follow. His stride bore the vigour of one marching to battle, and Draupadi, noticing it, warned him to soften his gait. He corrected himself and moved gently toward the hall.
They came to a place as obscure as the mind of an ignoramus, as forlorn as a maiden abandoned by love, as desolate as a forest stripped of life, as deceptive as the wealth of a miser, as cryptic as an unread scripture, as fleeting as figures seen in dream, as perplexing as a difficult parable, as corrupted as the realm of a wicked ruler, as restless as the cradle of gamblers and libertines. Before the darkened entrance of the dance-hall he stood, surveying it from all sides, then braced his mighty frame like a wild elephant and stepped within, clasping his wife’s hand. The hall lay drowned in darkness, its pillars, dais, and walls indistinct, a place that would unnerve cowards.
Bhima advanced, found the couch, and bade Draupadi remain hidden at a distance. Meanwhile, Keechaka, adorned and aflame with expectation, proud as a bullock entering what he believed to be the cavern of desire, strode quickly into the place where Bhima waited. He was certain Sairandhri had already arrived. Without hesitation, spilling coarse and foolish words, puffed with strength, swollen with vanity, he reached the spot indicated to him and stretched his hand upon the couch. Bhima, trembling with anger yet mastering his senses, lay silent, watching.
Keechaka, thinking the form beneath his hand was Malini’s, shivered with desire and whispered that he had brought her ornaments chosen with care, that many women once enchanted by his power had given him precious gifts and invited him into their chambers, that whoever joined him never thought of another man.
He boasted of his figure, his wit, the irresistible effect he claimed to have on beautiful women. Yet, he confessed, for the first time he himself was ensnared by another—by her. Bhima found his words loathsome, yet in a changed voice, mindful that Draupadi might hear, he replied that boasting was Keechaka’s nature, but that no woman like himself could be found in all the three worlds.
Should Keechaka’s body meet his, he would learn what fate awaited. To compare him with other women would be folly. After touching him, Keechaka would cease to desire anyone; mind and body alike would receive the true fruit of their pursuit. If the final sweetness of union were granted, Keechaka would vanish without trace in his embrace. Thus, the alluring and deceitful speech drew the fool into haste and paralysis, establishing in advance the eternal law that action yields its fruit without ever straying from the path of righteousness.
