To Bruhannala was entrusted the care and training of young Uttara, and thus the place accorded to him stood in quiet harmony with Indra’s gentle moderation of Urvasi’s curse. At that time Nakula reached the court of King Virata and stood watching the royal horses.
The king observed his steady gaze and said to his attendants that the stranger bore a delicate and pleasant mien, with noble manners and the refined appearance of high birth. The way his eyes travelled over the horse’s revealed mastery of their lore, for he looked not merely with fondness but with the discernment of one trained in every phase of equine science.
Wondering who this youth might be, the king commanded his people to discover his identity. Meanwhile Nakula approached, saluted with folded hands, and said, “O King, I am versed in the training of royal steeds, their feeding, health, breeding, and the growth of their herds. I am Damagranthi, instructed in Aśvaśāstra. I know the qualities of horses, their longevity, their powers of propagation, the curing of their ailments, and the nourishment that strengthens them.
At your command I shall display my skill, and when war breaks forth, I shall not remain still but prove my strength openly.” Virata, pleased, answered that such mastery deserved high placement, that it was unworthy to call such a man a mere keeper of horses. But Nakula replied humbly that it was better to serve in the art one knew perfectly, and not to assume duties unfamiliar.
Dharmaraja had raised him, trained him in the lore of horses, and appointed him chief of his herds, treating him with affection as though he were kin. But when Dharmaraja left his kingdom and went to exile, Nakula wandered from place to place and heard of Virata’s piety and gentle nature, akin to the righteousness of Yudhishthira.
Thus, he came seeking service. If granted a place, he would remain grateful; otherwise, he would depart silently. The king, moved, appointed him head of the royal horse-herds, granting him honour and command, and the son of Mādrī accepted the post with satisfaction.
After some time Sahadeva arrived, carrying bundles of halters and ropes fit for tethering cows and calves, and leaning on a shepherd’s staff. Virata saw him and thought that though he appeared calm, courage flickered within him like hidden fire, and though his beauty shone like the moon, some unspoken sorrow trembled upon his noble face.
With hesitant glances he approached the king, bowed, and said, “Grant me charge of your cattle. Under my watch they shall not sicken, nor wander, nor fall prey to beasts. Your herds will remain strong, tireless, and well-watered, and the other cowherds will respect my ways.”
Virata marvelled, saying his bearing spoke of high lineage, unlike the manner of shepherds, looking more akin to the children of the sun yet softened by the grace of the lunar race. He offered him vehicles, weapons, and a place among the officers of the realm, but Sahadeva folded his hands and answered that he was of low birth and skilled only in tending cattle, having served the Kauravas and later Dharmaraja in that very task.
He was Tantripāla, adept in breeding oxen, raising calves, and multiplying herds swiftly. He knew every kind of cattle and asked only to be placed where his craft would be useful. The king, after studying his face, granted the role, saying he might take greater duties if he wished, but if not, he should tend the cattle with care. The shepherds would all obey his command, and so Sahadeva was welcomed with honour into the household of Virata.
Sairandhrī meanwhile bound her hair in a single knot, letting it fall slightly to the right, and clothed herself in a faded sari and a coarse linen mantle across her shoulders. Thus, disguised as a humble maid, she walked toward the court of Virata. Like the moon veiled by cloud, like a lotus hidden beneath ice, like a lamp darkened by dust, her radiance lay concealed beneath her rough attire.
As she walked, the people whispered that she resembled Rohini or Arundhati, hardly a mortal woman, for dignity and divine grace still clung to her despite her humble garb. They approached and asked who she was and where she sought to go. She answered gently that she was Sairandhrī, looking only for food, cloth, and shelter, desiring no more. The people marvelled at her modest request.
At that moment Queen Sudheṣṇā, standing atop her palace with her attendants, saw the woman and was struck by the harmony of beauty and modesty she bore. Curious, she sent two sharp-eyed women to bring her. Adjusting her veil, Sairandhrī followed them into the private chambers, her feet reddened like fresh vermilion, leaving delicate prints upon the floor, her fair complexion brightening the walls as though light had entered with her, her eyes blossoming with confidence, and her dark hair flowing like silken threads.
When she reached Queen Sudheṣṇā, the queen welcomed her warmly, observing her from head to foot, and asked who she was and what lineage she belonged to. Draupadi, perceiving her nature, answered that she was born among the Sairandhrīs, that her name was Malini, and that she had five husbands whom she followed into the forest after envious foes dragged her by the hair before them.
Living on roots and fruits, she kept a strict vow of chastity, which she had yet to complete within the year. Hearing of the queen’s virtue, she had come to seek service. Sudheṣṇā doubted that she was mortal at all, thinking her perhaps a woman of the Garuda’s, the celestials, the Kinnaras, or the Yakṣas.
Draupadi smiled and said she had served Satyabhama and later Draupadi herself, learned in the duties of a handmaid, and accustomed to work done with honour. She knew the preparation of fragrant unguents, the weaving of garlands, the shaping of ornaments, and the adornment of hair with delicate hues and blossoms. But the queen, troubled by her beauty, feared that her presence might draw the king’s attention and bring misfortune to the women’s quarters.
Draupadi reassured her that her husbands were no ordinary men; their valour was guarded by Hari and Hara, and even mighty warriors could not bear their wrath. Should any man cast lustful eyes upon her, he would meet ruin before nightfall. Her beauty, she said, would not entice those protected by her husbands’ glory.
“Therefore, set aside your doubts,” she said, “and accept me as your friend. Whatever task holds dignity, wherever honour resides, whatever labour befits a cultured household, that will I perform with devotion.” Sudeshna, appeased, received her warmly into the women’s chambers. Thus, the Pandavas, unnoticed by any, entered the court of Virata and dwelt there in safety and comfort. And now, said Vaisampayana, would begin the further tale of the Matsya king, speaking of adaptability, simplicity, humility, and the alertness required even in the smallest matters—virtues that guide all people in every calling.
