When the Kurukshetra clouds were yet far from sight, Srikrishna departed for Dvārakā, accompanied by his sister Subhadrā and young Abhimanyu. Drishtadyumna took with him his nephews, the sons of Draupadī—the Upapāndavas—back to his kingdom. The Pāndavas, attended only by a band of twenty trusted aides and several groups of venerable Brāhmins, set forth toward the sacred Dvaitavana, their destined dwelling during exile.
As they approached the vast wilderness, Dharmarāja addressed his brothers with grave caution. “This,” said he, “is a most fearsome forest, haunted by lions and tigers, great serpents, and wild elephants. It is said even mythical eight-legged lions roam here through the night sky. We must tread with utmost vigilance, for this solitude is a fitting ground for foes to weave deceit. Let prudence guide every step.”
Arjuna replied with calm assurance, his words carrying the weight of conviction. “O King,” said he, “the Brāhmins dwelling here are seers of the highest order—guardians of Vedic lore, their wisdom born of penance. The blessings of Nārada and Vyāsa ever accompany you. The very thought of your welfare occupies their hearts, and by their grace, our safety is assured.”
As they entered Dvaitavana, its beauty seemed ethereal. The forest glowed with luxuriant greenery; vines and creepers intertwined with blossoms of every hue, their fragrance wafting through the breeze. The trees were alive with peacocks, whose calls mingled with the soft rustle of leaves—a melody of earth and air. Koels sang in tune with the gentle dance of branches, their notes blending with the whispering wind. “Such music,” thought Arjuna, “is perhaps unknown even in the worlds of the gods.” Parrots perched high above recited the sacred hymns of the Vedas, echoing the chants of sages. Arjuna smiled, mistaking at first their song for human prayer, until the playful birds fluttered their wings as if to mock him— “We are but birds, O Warrior!”
The lakes of Dvaitavana gleamed like beds of swirling pearls, their clear waters sheltering koels, pelicans, cranes, and swans. The breeze that passed across them cooled the body and stilled the mind. A lone pelican stood on one leg, patient and still, awaiting its prey; a watchful koel, knowing the ruse, mocked softly from the trees. Arjuna, observing the sanctity and serenity of the place, said, “This is a divine abode; let us dwell here.”
They raised tents beneath the shade of mighty trees and began their life of simplicity and devotion. Every sage, hermit, or wandering traveller who came their way was received with reverence, offered food and honour according to sacred rule.
One day, the great sage Mārkaṇḍeya, master of dharma and ancient wisdom, arrived with his disciples. His penance glowed about him like a halo, and all who neared him felt their sins dissolve. Dharmarāja and the Brāhmins received him with Vedic chants, washed his feet, sprinkled the holy water upon their heads, and seated him with humble dignity. Beholding Draupadī, the sage said, “Once I beheld Sītā in the forest beside Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, who endured exile for the sake of filial duty. Today I see you, O queen of noble endurance, sustaining the learned with the virtue of your husband, Dharmarāja.”
He then spoke of the great kings of old—Sagara, Bharata, Nala, Yayāti, Vainya, and Nabhāga—who upheld righteousness and ascended to celestial realms, their names immortal in history. “But alas,” said he, “the wicked Duryodhana, guided by the cunning Śakuni, has wronged you grievously. None are their equals in deceit. Yet you, bound by truth, live a life of virtue, and thus shall your desires be fulfilled.” Blessing them with divine grace, he departed.
When the sage left, peace and sanctity pervaded the forest; the air itself seemed stilled in reverence. The Brāhmins murmured among themselves, saying, “It is no wonder such saints are drawn here; virtue itself pulls them toward Dharmarāja.”
One evening, as twilight bathed the trees in gold, Dharmarāja and the Brāhmins performed the evening fire rituals. The air vibrated with the resonance of Vedic hymns. Birds on the branches mimicked the chants, bringing smiles to the sages’ faces. Beasts that were foes by nature wandered together without fear. Fawns playfully tugged at Draupadī’s garments, as if saying, “O Mother, share with us what you offer the gods.” Such innocence brought laughter to all.
Then came sage Bakadalbhya, drawn by the sanctity of the place. “O Dharmarāja,” he said, “your righteousness transcends all. The very forest has changed its nature at your presence. Where once danger lurked, now serenity reigns. You are like the sacred fire—pure and steadfast. Kings of virtue, guided by learned Brāhmins, have always conquered adversity. The wicked, who defy the counsel of the wise, invite their own ruin. You, upheld by scholars, blessed by sages, revered by hermits, and loved by your people, are watched over even by the gods.” With those words, he blessed them and departed.
Thus, the Pāndavas, rising above humiliation and hardship, grew stronger with each passing day. One evening, as the forest sank into calm, Draupadī spoke her heart to Dharmarāja. “The old king,” she said bitterly, “enslaved by his evil sons, stole your kingdom and peace. Does he live now with a clear conscience? Has he no regret for what was done?”
Dharmarāja sighed deeply. “The heart of Dhṛtarāṣṭra,” he said, “is forged of iron. When his sons insulted us—the jewels of his lineage—he remained silent. In that silence lies his mind for war. You once dwelt amid silken beds and sandal perfumes, served by kings, adorned in fine garments and jewels. Now you lie upon grass mats, eat roots and forest fare, and wear coarse linen. How can I endure this? The blind king bears the guilt, and perhaps even Brahmā has turned fortune’s wheel against us, placing him among the ranks of the wicked.”
Perceiving the smouldering anguish within him, Draupadī replied, “O King, your brothers are like chained lions, bearing hardship only for your sake. Once, the crowns of monarchs reddened your feet; now, the same crimson stains arise from your long wanderings through rock and thorn. You who once served Brāhmins on golden plates and poured water in silver vessels now serve roots upon plantain leaves. Yet you remain the same at heart. Beware, my lord, that patience does not dull your edge. Behold Bhīma—once as mighty as a herd of elephants—now worn by restraint. Arjuna, master of arms, wanders among beasts. The gentle Nakula and Sahadeva gather grass and fruit for sacrifice. What is greater, forgiveness or valour? A wise king must know when each should prevail. Eternal endurance is folly; ceaseless aggression, ruin. Forgiveness and brilliance must blend in harmony, for both excess and deficiency lead to downfall. So taught Prahlāda to Bali, his grandson of fame.”
Thus spoke Draupadī, her words pouring forth the unspoken grief of the Pāndavas. Dharmarāja, who had lost power but gained sanctity, whose kingdom was gone but whose soul had grown radiant, listened in silence. Blessed by sages, cursed by foes, praised by the wise and pressed by kin, he sat between destiny and dharma—his heart a fire concealed beneath the ashes of endurance.
