The forefathers of Aurva, rising like ancient flame from the unseen realms, addressed the young sage with grave compassion: “O child of the Bhrigu line, we have beheld the dread of thy penance and the terrible brilliance of its blaze that makes the worlds tremble. Restrain thy wrath, that it may remain without master. Know this truth: we are not victims of the Kshatriya race, nor did greed move us to hoard or to steal. If wealth had been our desire, Kubera himself would have bowed in humility to grant it. We departed from life of our own choosing, for long years had wearied us. To end life by our own will, we deemed equal to fratricide; therefore, we summoned the fury of the Kshatriyas to become the instrument of our release. Shall the glory of the Bhrigus be dimmed because we embraced death by intent? It was our chosen end that has roused thy anger. Harm not the world, for it is our appeal and our command.”
Aurva, trembling, answered: “Revered ancestors, the forgotten oath of a sage becomes an inner fire that burns to ashes. Anger born of just cause, if unfulfilled or bargained away, steals the fourfold fruit of life. The wicked kings who tortured you have bequeathed to me the cries I heard even within the womb; that memory burns in my eyes and feeds my wrath against the Kshatriya race. If the wise do not restrain violence, they share in the guilt of the oppressor and must walk the same dark path. Therefore, my fury falls not only on the wicked but on all who let sin go unchallenged. Yet I fear to defy your bidding. This fire of penance, kindled by wrath, consumes me; if I hold it, it will leave me traceless. Show me, then, what may serve the good of both worlds.”
The ancestors replied: “The essence of creation lies hidden in the waters. Cast thy fierce flame into their depths.” Obedient to their counsel, Aurva withdrew into meditation and hurled forth his fury. The wrath leaped forth in the form of a fiery steed and plunged into the ocean, where it drinks the waters unceasingly. The ancients call it Aurvagni, the Horse of Fire, ever consuming the deep, as the Vedas remember.
So must a sage abide by dharma: as Aurva quenched the fire of wrath, so did Parāśara, though his soul burned to avenge the slaying of his father Śakti. Vasiṣṭha, though a lover of peace and master of serenity, felt still the spark of hidden flame against the demons who had devoured his son; therefore, he did not restrain Parāśara when the great satra-yajña began, a sacrifice of dreadful power to consume the race of Asuras. The three sacred fires blazed; the cries of the flesh-eating demons filled the air as they fell like dry leaves into the flames. The sky rang with terror, and the fire shone like a fourth Agni itself.
Then the Brahmarṣis—Pulaha, Pulastya, and Kratu—came swiftly to the place of sacrifice and prayed the mighty sage to stay his hand and spare the race of demons. Parāśara, heeding the entreaty of the great seers, stilled the sacrifice. Yet the fire, once born, must be given its dwelling. On Pulastya’s counsel, he cast the sacrificial flame to the northern slopes of the Himalaya, bidding it feed only on trees, creepers, and stones upon holy days. Thus arose a forest fire of select and sacred burnings.
The Gandharva who told this tale to the Pandavas ended with the stories of Tapati, of Vasiṣṭha and of Aurva. The sons of Pāṇḍu, bowing in reverence, said, “Your knowledge and vision are beyond measure. Advise us, who shall be our priest and guide?” The celestial musician pondered and replied, “Not far hence lies a holy place where the hermit Dhaumya abides in meditation. Entreat him to be your purohita; under his guidance, your desires will find their rightful fruit.”
Arjuna, in gratitude, gave to Citraratha the celestial Agneyastra and entrusted to him the divine horses to be returned at his call. Bidding farewell to the Gandharva, the Pandavas crossed the Ganga and came to Utkacha. There they found the pure-hearted sage Dhaumya, brother of Devala and author of ancient smṛtis, whose wisdom forms a pillar of dharma. They prayed him to be their priest, and by the light of his inner sight he knew their lineage and gladly consented. Guided by him, they journeyed south toward Dakṣiṇa Pañchāla.
Along the way, many bands of Brahmins and scholars hastened to the same destination: the svayaṃvara of Draupadī, daughter of Drupada. According to the ancient custom, the king had prepared to honour every guest with gifts of gold, jewels, and rich ornaments, drawing men of every land. Rumour spread that this day the fire-born princess would choose her lord.
The Pandavas mingled with the Brahmin throngs as they entered the city of Drupada. They bowed to the great sage Vyāsa, who blessed them and foretold auspicious turns in their arduous path before vanishing like the wind. Drupadapura lay before them like a sea of men. Banners fluttered, garlands of flowers perfumed the breeze, sandal and musk scented the streets. Yet the sons of Pāṇḍu, in the garb of humble Brahmins, took shelter in the hut of a potter, unseen and unknown.
King Drupada, long resolved to give his daughter to Arjuna, could not discover their hidden presence. He proclaimed a trial of strength and skill: in the sky a revolving fish, the matsya-yantra, was set, and he who could string the mighty bow and strike the target with five arrows should win the maiden’s hand. Princes from many realms gathered, adorned in the fragrances of their homelands, their hearts beating with ambition and desire. The court blazed with colours and festal sound; the air throbbed with drumbeats and the chant of victory.
Then Draupadī, the flame-born beauty, entered, her radiance like the dawn, while the learned Brahmins uttered their blessings. Her brother, the valiant Dr̥ṣṭadyumna, armed and resplendent, greeted the assembly, and the tumult sank to a hush. He showed the bow and the whirling fish and proclaimed: “He who can string this bow and send five arrows through the eye of the moving target shall win the prize of life itself. These weapons are wrought by the power of a great hermit; only he who is truly strong, skillful, and steadfast may attempt this trial. Here is the hour of destiny.”
The gathered princes gazed in wonder at Draupadī and her brother, whose transcendental brilliance ruled the scene. Thus began the fateful contest—not a mere test of skill but the turning of the world’s course: not for wealth but for dharma, not for power but for virtue, not for choice but for destiny. And the stream of great events rolled on toward its immortal design.
