The forest murmured ill news as the Pandavas rode together. Yudhisthira, whose soul is the law itself, drew their attention to the tokens of dread: birds that called from the sunward quarter, beasts making strange, frantic cries and fleeing in all directions, an old fox howling and scuttling off — signs, he warned, of dishonour or the clash of arms; the men’s hearts were troubled, their limbs slackening, their thoughts wild with foreboding.
They had left Dhoumya alone in pursuit, for Jayadratha had borne off Draupadī; swift counsel was needed, for enemies that lurk bide their hour and take men unawares. “This grove is hollow as a lotusless lake and night without moon,” Yudhisthira said, “yet haste must be our virtue.” They rode with all speed and saw, amid the dust, a handmaid of Draupadī weeping and wringing herself on the ground; Dhoumya, come up in his exhaustion, saluted with folded hands and comforted her, while the charioteers leapt down and questioned the cause.
Through her sobs came the name: Jayadratha had carried Draupadī by force. Yudhisthira’s voice grew firm as tempered gold; to be affronted thus was to defile the purest of their household, and such a sinner, caught by lust and blinded pride, should find no safe refuge on earth or sky. He bade no one despair: the Pandavas would not spare him, for they were schooled in arms and righteous wrath alike. Draupadī herself, wiping tears with a calm born of anger, proclaimed that the men before her were equal to the gods and that to insult them was to invite death; she named the enemy and bid them pursue without delay.
Thus, the five, as coiling serpents loosed, streamed after Jayadratha, and the sounds of hooves told him that the avengers were at hand. He mocked from his chariot and demanded, with insolent curiosity, that Draupadī tell him which of the five was which, but she, with the disdain of one wronged, answered as if pronouncing doom: “Know, then, that the foremost is Yudhisthira, king in virtue, calm as the lotus, whose fame is a light across the Kuru house; he pardons the penitent and will not hew down the surrendered.
Then comes Bhīma, whose body is a tempest and whose strength rends mountains — kings tremble to meet him; next Arjuna, the peerless archer, the son of Indra, serene and terrible against unrighteousness; Nakula and Sahadeva follow, jewels in warcraft and wisdom, swift of hand and spare of speech, steadfast as the earth — together they are a host that cannot be overthrown.” With that she warned Jayadratha that his pride had chosen ruin as its companion.
The battle broke then as a held-back river: Jayadratha’s men were bidden to stand firm, but the Pandavas poured their vigour like a torrent. Bhīma, with eyes like lightning and brows that knit the very tempest, cleft through ranks and roared as a lion; he rode forth and slew many a king, scattering the hosts and trampling the field with the fury of a god roused.
Nakula ran like a hunter among charioteers, laying heads low as coconuts drop from a tree; Sahadeva felled steeds and drivers, never tiring, ever precise; Arjuna, at once whirl and spear, smote the grouped battalions as the Mandara churns the sea, and where his arrows swept the earth was rent and the enemy hosts broke like feeble reeds.
The plain ran red with the enemy’s blood; elephants toppled, chariots shattered, banners lay in the dust, and the ground filled with the fallen, their ornaments and weapons heaped like broken harvest. Amid that thunder, Jayadratha cast down Draupadī and fled, but the Pandavas, having first set the lady safe upon a chariot, gave chase with single purpose. Yudhisthira bid Dhoumya, and the younger brothers guard Draupadī and the ashram of the pious while Bhīma and Arjuna drove on to overtake the king. They found him trembling where his steeds had been slain; Bhīma, whose hand is swift as the storm, seized him, struck him to the earth and would have ended him there, but Arjuna, whose soul respects the laws of kingship and whose heart remembers mercy, counselled restraint in deference to Yudhisthira’s nature.
Yet when it was known that Jayadratha was of kin to Dussalā, the daughter of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, Yudhisthira, with that stern mercy which weighs all things, declared that certain dues must be paid and that this sin might not pass unatoned. The humbled king was bound and brought before the assembly; Draupadī, with the quiet authority of one scorned and yet sovereign by right, bade that he be made to acknowledge the Pandavas’ lordship; so, he swore, with folded palms and eyes cast down, to live as their servant and to repent.
Yudhisthira spoke then with the gentle severity of a judge: a man whose stature stoops to such deeds must be taught the path of honour if he is to walk the world again; go hence, live humbly, and from this day refuse the ways that lead to shame. Jayadratha was released in that counsel, departing with the weight of disgrace and the sting of defeat; thus, was proved the old truth — the wicked pride that brings a man to wicked plays shall find, by the turns of fate, it’s just and terrible ending.
